


Along Cornfields and the Brandywine

by bronwe_iris



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, a combo of both book and movie-verse, before Frodo moved in with Bilbo, changed the rating to "teen" because there is violence and kidnappings, family/cousin fluff between Frodo and Merry, some angst with Frodo (of course), young Frodo and Merry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2168748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronwe_iris/pseuds/bronwe_iris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**RECENTLY RE-EDITED** For Frodo Baggins, growing up with his cousin Merry in Brandy Hall can be difficult, especially when he’s often known as nothing more than that “troublesome Baggins.” But when an accident causes him to meet a strange human who calls himself a Ranger, things start to get a bit more exciting – and dangerous – for the young hobbit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****IMPORTANT. I HAVE RECENTLY RE-EDITED THIS STORY. THIS INCLUDES ALL OF CHAPTERS 1-9.****
> 
> AS OF FEBRUARY 2018, CHAPTERS 1-9 HAVE BEEN EDITED. Not so much plot-wise, but more with grammar and tightening of dialogue (as well as replacing dialogue that sounded far too modern). I only do this because it is an older story, and if I continue it, I want the quality to be consistent throughout it. (Though there is one unimportant scene I did cut out, as I felt it did nothing for the story and only hindered the pacing.)
> 
> And with the whole age thing. In the books, Frodo is 14 years older than Merry, and Merry is 8 years older than Pippin. Because my story is already going to be slightly AU, I’m going to change their age differences up a bit (Peter Jackson kind of did, so what the heck I guess). In my story, Frodo is about 13 years old in human years, and Merry is about 8/9 years old in human years.
> 
> (Also, my Frodo is a bit different from movie-Frodo. He is based much more on book-Frodo, who was quite the trouble-making mushroom thief in his youth.)

“I don’t know about this, Frodo.”

Merry, the younger of the two hobbits standing at the edge of a large cornfield, looked up at this cousin warily.

The taller hobbit waved his hand absently.  “You worry too much, Merry.  I’ve done this countless times.”

“But you’re faster than me,” Merry pointed out.  “And you know your way around every farm field within sight of Brandy Hall, and some even beyond that!”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Merry?” Frodo raised an eyebrow at Merry. “Mushroom thieving is hardly a new hobby for you. Besides,” he added. “When I leave Brandy Hall to go traveling like Uncle Bilbo, you’ll have to do all of the mischief making by yourself. You’ve got to keep up our reputation up, you know.”

Merry rolled his eyes.  How Frodo loved Bilbo’s stories.  Whenever the older hobbit would visit, listening to Bilbo’s fantastical tales was the one thing Frodo looked forward to most.  From then on, Frodo had planted the idea in his head that he too would grow up to visit the realm of the elves, meet great warriors, and traverse on long, wonderous journeys.  Merry wasn’t so inclined to the idea of leaving Buckland for such adventures. He much preferred his own “distant lands” that bordered the Brandwine River and didn’t run much further than that.

Still, that didn’t mean he and Frodo couldn’t have their own excitement right here in Buckland. Besides, what was the harm in taking a few mushrooms? They might not even see Farmer Maggot.

“Fine,” huffed Merry. He narrowed his eyes at his cousin. “But you better be telling the truth about those mushrooms. The _biggest_ you’ve ever seen, right?”

Frodo smiled triumphantly.

“And,” Merry crossed his arms haughtily, a sly glint in his eyes.  “You have to take me fishing afterwards.”

“Deal,” Frodo said immediately.  “That is, if we survive Maggot’s guard dogs.”

Merry’s smirk dropped from his face.  “Wh-what?”

But Frodo was already pushing through the first row of corn.

“Frodo!” Merry called as he stumbled along in pursuit.  “You didn’t say anything about  _dogs!_    _Frodo!_ ”

/

The cornfield was much larger than Merry had realized.  It seemed to go on for hours, row upon endless row of corn rising up in every direction as the hobbits trekked through it.  However, as overwhelming as it was, Merry wasn’t lost.  He’d always had an excellent sense of direction, and it didn’t fail even in the never-ending corn rows.  He followed Frodo confidently, knowing that his cousin would know the way also, though that was simply because of the number of times Frodo had walked through the field.  Without that, Frodo would’ve been miserably lost.  Though he refused to acknowledge it, Frodo had a terrible sense of direction.  Merry had no problem reminding Frodo of this whenever the two would go on their little adventures together, much to Frodo’s irritation. 

Merry looked up through the intertwining cornstalks high above his head.  The early afternoon sun watched lazily from above, making it quite warm as the two hobbits pushed their way through the field.  Merry swept a handful of tangled curls away from his face, hoping for a slight breeze to cool his flushed skin.

Frodo came to a sudden halt in front of Merry.  “Quiet,” hissed Frodo.  Merry froze, the sounds of his feet trampling through the cornfield dying away.

Frodo shook his head.  “Elbereth, Merry!  It’s a wonder Maggot hasn’t set his dogs on us already, with all your stomping.”

“You talk about that as if it’s bound to happen, no matter what we do,” Merry muttered crossly.

Frodo shrugged.  “I know how to out-run them.”

“Oh really?” said Merry. He pressed his lips into a mocking smirk. “What about when Maggot actually caught you, and then gave you a good lashing before sending you running all the way back to Brandy Hall?”

Frodo shot Merry a glare.  “That was one time,” he huffed.  “And I was a lot younger.  About your size, actually.”  He eyed Merry up and down, a teasing grin flashing across his face.  “Perfect chewing size for Maggot’s dogs.”

Merry stuck his tongue out at Frodo.  Frodo chuckled and pushed back the final row of corn, revealing Farmer Maggot’s farm, Bamfurlong.  Merry made his way to Frodo’s side, careful where he walked so as to avoid any leaves that would crunch loudly if stepped on.  The two young hobbits peered out of the cornfield, blinking against the bright sunlight.

Rows of cabbages, carrots, and other various vegetables spread out before them.  Beyond the rows was a fenced-in grass field where five ponies could be seen grazing calmly.  To the left was a large barn.

“Right,” said Frodo.  “So Maggot’s farm has mushrooms almost anywhere you can pick a vegetable, but those are usually the skimpy ones.  There are two places that have the best ones, and a  _lot_ of them.”  Frodo pointed towards the ponies’ fence.  “One patch is between the pony fence and the barn.”

“But that’s right out in the open!” protested Merry.

“It wasn’t a few years ago; it was lined with bushes tall enough for someone your size to hide in.  But that’s where Maggot caught me, so I guess he took them down to prevent any more  _thieves_.”  Frodo said the last word with a tone of mock horror, a smirk slipping onto his face.  Clearly, he was quite unconcerned with the farmer’s efforts to keep unwanted visitors out of his farm.

Frodo gestured to the other side of the farm.  Beyond the vegetable rows, the grassy ground dropped over the edge of large hill.  A little way down the slope a large tree could be seen.  “The second patch is below that tree,” Frodo said.  He paused, glancing towards the barn.  Seeing no sign of activity, Frodo suddenly launched himself from the corn.

Merry cried out in surprise.  “Frodo!”  After a moment’s hesitation, he dashed out after his cousin.  Together, the two hobbits flew across the short distance between the cornfield and the vegetable rows.  Upon reaching the first line of cabbages, Frodo threw himself to the ground to hide within the vegetation.  Merry quickly followed, both hobbits sending dust flying into the air as they landed.

“Nice sprinting, for a hobbit with such short legs,” Frodo said cheerfully, once he had caught his breath.  Reaching out, he gave his cousin a playful slap on the shoulder.

A puff of dust exploded from the shirt sleeve, making Merry scrunch up his nose to resist sneezing.  “Watch it!” Merry said, once the urge to sneeze had passed.  “Once I reach my tweens, I’ll grow right past you in height.”

“Right,” said Frodo sarcastically.  “Meriadoc Brandybuck, tallest of all the hobbits in Buckland, no, the  _Shire_!”  He snickered, to which Merry responded by sticking out his tongue at his cousin.

Frodo glanced at the tree in the distance, Merry following his gaze.  Joking with Frodo had somewhat eased Merry’s fears about being caught, and the promise of delicious mushrooms was starting to gnaw at him and his grumbling stomach.  “Come on, Baggins!  You’re too slow for me, you old hobbit!”  The next second, Merry had jumped to his feet and was running as fast as he could.

“Oi!”  Frodo scrambled up from the ground and raced after his cousin.

The two reached the tree at the same moment, Frodo easily catching up to Merry.  Diving beneath the low branches, they burst into laughter, clutching their sides as they rolled against each other.  Out of the corner of Merry’s eye he spotted the large patch of mushrooms Frodo had promised.  He sat up in excitement and lunged for them, scooping up an armful in one swipe.  “Whoa!  You weren’t kidding, Frodo – these are  _huge!_ ”

Frodo sat up with a satisfied grin.  “Told you,” he said proudly.

Merry was hardly listening, as he was too preoccupied with the mushrooms in his hands and mouth.  The two leaned against the tree, content with eating their spoils in the soothing shade.

“Who goes there?  Show yourselves!”

Frodo and Merry started, both dropping mushrooms in surprise.

“Oh no,” Frodo muttered, upon recognizing the haggard voice.

“We’re doomed,” squeaked Merry.

The sound of vicious barking suddenly erupted from over the top of the hill.  The next moment, three large black dogs stood at the top of the grassy slope.  Behind them was a middle-aged, furious-looking hobbit.  He was holding a rake, which he waved wildly.  Spotting the two youngsters hiding beneath the tree branches, he growled and stalked forward.

“What will it take for me to –” Farmer Maggot froze, staring at Frodo.  Frodo smiled sheepishly and gave a half-wave.  “ _You!_ ” Maggot snarled furiously. He scowled and swung his arm up, pointing at the two hobbits.  “Get ‘em, boys!”

“Time to go, Merry!” yelped Frodo.  He sprung to his feet and began running down the hill, pulling a screaming Merry after him.  The dogs gave chase, barking ferociously.

“We’re going to die!” Merry wailed.  He struggled to keep up with his cousin, whose legs were much longer.  Frodo cast an exasperated glance back at Merry; noticing he was falling behind, Frodo seized one of the small arms and tugged him closer.

“Not today, cousin!” Frodo led Merry to a narrow foot-pressed pathway that swerved to the right of the sloping hill.  A small grove of apple trees loomed in front of them.  Without hesitation Frodo dove into it, yanking Merry along.

The two continued to run, the three dogs still in pursuit.  Merry didn’t dare look back, terrified to see how close the dogs were.  Frodo swerved around a rather large apple tree and leapt into the air. With a loud whoop, he snatched an apple off of a low branch as he passed beneath it.  With the fruit in one hand and his cousin in the other, Frodo burst through the last line of trees and back into the open fields.

Merry gasped for breath, not sure how much longer he could keep up.  “Frodo –”

“Straight ahead, Merry!” Frodo urged.  “Come on!”

In front of them was a narrow river.  It wasn’t the Brandywine, but instead was one of the smaller rivers that branched into it.  And – to Merry’s amazement – an empty wooden raft was pulled up to the shore.

“Get on!” Frodo commanded, pushing Merry in front of him.  Merry immediately jumped onto the raft, the weight of his landing giving it a slight push into the river.  He turned around and saw to his horror that the three dogs were nearly to the riverbank, where Frodo was still standing.

“Frodo!  The dogs!” Merry yelled.  Frodo leaped forward, landing on the raft with a large  _splash_  that launched it over the river’s surface.  The impact put a good few yards between them and the furiously barking dogs, the distance only increasing as the river continued to sweep them downstream.

The cousins twisted around, looking back up the river to stare at the shrinking black forms of the dogs.  They could see Farmer Maggot making his way to the river bank, but both Frodo and Merry knew that they were more than safe.  Frodo laughed loudly.  “Well done, Merry!”  He tossed the apple he had been holding to Merry, who caught it easily.  

Turning the apple over his in hand, Merry looked down at the raft that had saved them.  “How’d you know this was here?”

Frodo grinned.  “I made it, silly Brandybuck.  You think I’d lead you to Maggot’s farm without an escape plan in case we were to be discovered?  Besides,” he added.  “Uncle Saradoc would probably throw me out of Brandy Hall if I let you get eaten by a couple of old dogs.”

Merry grinned and took a bit of the apple.  He studied the raft, and was both surprised and impressed to see that it had a small rudder with a steering pole attached to it.  “You even put a rudder on it!  Where'd you get it?”

“From Uncle Bilbo, last time he visited,” explained Frodo.  “I wrote a letter to him asking about rudders for my raft, and the next time he came to Brandy Hall, he had one with him.  He helped me attach it.”  Looking pleased with himself, Frodo pulled a mushroom from his pocket (where Merry was sure Frodo had stuffed many more for later) and popped it into his mouth.

“You know, that was rather fun,” Merry said after a few moments.

Frodo looked at his cousin.  A sly smile crept onto his lips.  “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, you should take me again sometime!”

“What about the dogs?  You were screaming about your imminent death not ten minutes ago.”

Merry threw Frodo a dirty look, but grinned in spite of himself.  He shrugged, taking another large bite from his apple.  “Well, as long as we have an escape plan, we’ll be okay.  Or we could raid other farms besides Maggot’s, too.”

“Sure,” Frodo agreed, popping another mushroom into his mouth.  “But Maggot’s is the most fun to go to – he gets riled up over it so easily.”

Merry laughed.  “Well, next time  _I_  choose which farm we’re going to.”

“Sure, Merry.”  Frodo leaned over, ruffling his cousin’s curls affectionately.  “I’ll make a proper thief out of you yet, Meriadoc!”

Merry smiled brightly.  He shifted his position on the raft so he could dip his feet in the cool water.  The two were silent for a few minutes, munching happily on their prizes as they watched the riverbank pass by.

“So,” said Frodo after a few moments.  “You wanted to go fishing, right?”

Merry spun around to face Frodo, excitement clear on his face.  “Yes!”

“Well then, let’s get the poles and bait and see if we can catch something before Aunt Esmeralda comes searching for us for dinner.”


	2. Chapter 2

When Frodo had decided that they had sailed far enough, they pulled the raft ashore, leaving it among a few bushes growing next to the riverbank.  The two walked across a small wheat field where they came upon a large oak tree.  Standing alone in the fields surrounding it, the tree looked positively enormous.  Its leaves rustled softly in the warm breeze, a greeting to the young hobbits as they approached it.  Reaching up, Frodo pulled two simple fishing poles from their hiding place within the lowest of the tree’s branches.  He handed those to Merry, then continued to shift his hand around.  With a satisfied exclamation, he pulled down a small wooden box he and Merry used to hold their fishing hooks and replacement lines in.

“I had put these here while taking the raft to Maggot’s farm earlier,” Frodo explained as they began to walk back to the riverbank.

Properly equipped with their fishing gear, the cousins set their poles beside their raft.  They then waded out into the shallow edge of the river in search of worms to use for bait.

Merry looked relentlessly but was dismayed to only find one worm within the time Frodo had already caught five.  Frowning, Merry twirled the worm between his thumb and index finger.  A sudden grin burst across his face, his eyes glinting mischievously.  He looked over at Frodo, who was still deep in search for more worms.  Merry casually waded over towards Frodo, pretending to be thoroughly scrounging through the mud.  When he was directly behind Frodo he stopped and straightened slightly.  Unfortunately, Merry was too short to reach the collar of Frodo’s shirt.  He  _was_ , however, the perfect height to reach the lower part of Frodo’s back, where his shirt tucked into his pants.  Stifling a giggle, Merry reached up and dropped the worm into the part of Frodo’s pants that stretched away from the small of his back.

The effect with immediate.  With a yelp, Frodo shot upwards.  Losing his footing in his scramble backwards, his toppled over with a loud cry and landed with a splash into the shallow edge of the river.  Mud and water flew everywhere, covering both Frodo, who was squirming frantically in the water, and Merry, who had burst into a fit of laughter.

After a few moments’ struggle, Frodo managed to free himself of the “gift” his cousin had given him.  Gasping, he turned to Merry, who was bent over and still laughing.

“You…should have…seen your face,” Merry wheezed between laughs.

Frodo narrowed his eyes.  “Well then!” he exclaimed, pushing himself out of the ankle-deep water.  “I suppose I shall have to repay you for the generous present.”

Seeing the look on the taller hobbit’s face, Merry gave a cry of alarm and turned, dashing up the river bank.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Frodo lunged forward and caught Merry around the knees, causing both of them to tumble to the slippery ground.  Frodo sprung up and landed on his smaller cousin’s stomach, pinning him to the ground.

“Frodo!” Merry yelled.  He wriggled his feet desperately, which were still in the water.  “Frodo, get off!”

“Not a chance!” Laughed Frodo, unconcerned with his cousin’s squirming.  Reaching behind him, Frodo grabbed a large handful of sticky mud.

Seeing what Frodo held in his hand, Merry gave a shout of protest.  “Don’t even think about it!   _Frodo_!”

Frodo grinned. Then he brought his hand down, smothering Merry’s face and hair with the mud.

“You stupid, stubborn Baggins!” Merry spluttered as Frodo rolled off him with a laugh.  Merry snatched up his own pile of mud and flung it at Frodo.  As always, Merry’s aim was perfect.  The mud pile smacked Frodo in the side of the head, stopping him mid-laugh.

“Now you’ve done it!” Frodo cried, grabbing another handful of mud.

Merry easily dodged Frodo’s throw, quickly gathering more of the brown sludge for himself.  The two continued to throw mud at each other, shouting and laughing loudly as the battle went on.

After a while, the hobbits collapsed on the riverbank side-by-side, covered head to toe in the sloppy mess.  Both breathed heavily, trying to catch their breaths.

“Truce?” Frodo managed to gasp.

Merry reached up and squashed one last ball of mud against Frodo’s cheek.  “Truce,” he agreed.

Once their exhaustion drained away, they retrieved their fishing supplies and got back onto the raft, pushing it out into the water.  Frodo directed the raft through the narrow river while Merry busily attached the hooks to their pole lines.

After a few minutes the river they were riding on suddenly curved sharply to the left, finally opening up into the much larger and faster Brandywine River.  Frodo expertly maneuvered the raft around a few shallow spots before moving the craft out into the middle of the river, where the water was both fast and deep.

“Now we’re moving!” Merry cried happily.  “Can I sail the raft for a bit, Frodo?”

“Alright,” Frodo said, moving aside so Merry could take the steering pole.  Merry had learned how to sail small water crafts a long time ago, so Frodo wasn’t worried about him being able to handle the raft, young as he was.  Merry grinned and scrambled to where Frodo had sat, taking position at the back of the raft.

Frodo cast a glance at where their fishing poles lay, checking to be sure that Merry hadn’t accidently kicked them into the river when they had traded places.  He looked at the rushing waters just inches from where he sat, suddenly slightly wary.  He didn’t mind going out into the river, having done it plenty of times, and having learned how to swim years ago.  Usually it didn’t bother him.  But…as he watched the small waves brush up against the raft’s side, occasionally spilling onto the wooden boards lightly, a small part of his mind couldn’t help but remind him that this was very same river his parents had drowned in years ago.

Frodo frowned, watching as another splash of water wetted the raft’s boards.  Since Frodo had built this raft himself and was always extra cautious when it came to the water, he had made completely sure that it was both sturdy and safe.  He wasn’t worried about his raft falling apart in the river.  Yet…there it still was.  The same water that had taken his parents.  Frodo sighed and tore his eyes away from the river, focusing on the riverbank as it passed by.

After a while, Merry spotted a place near the riverbank that satisfied him for fishing.  Steering the raft nearer to the shore, Merry finally let go of the rudder and snatched up his fishing pole.  Frodo opened his small wooden box and picked out two worms, handing one to Merry and using one for his own hook.

The two hobbits sat on the raft quietly, their lines drifting gently over the river’s surface as they waited for something to catch onto their bait.  The sun had begun to lower itself in the sky, but Frodo wasn’t worried; he knew they had plenty of time to get back to Brandy Hall before dark.

“Frodo!” Merry said suddenly.  “I’ve got something!”

Frodo snapped his gaze to Merry’s pole, which was bobbing up and down.  Merry began to reel it in, excitement on his face.  “Oh, I hope it’s a big one!  It feels like it will be!”  Merry reeled in the line a few feet, waited, then reeled again.  Frodo watched with a slight smile, letting his own pole dangle loosely in his hands.

“Elbereth, it sure is strong,” Merry muttered.  Suddenly, he gave a cry of surprise as the pole was jerked from his hands.  The pole flew into the air and landed with a  _splash_  into the river, at least two meters from where the young hobbits sat.  The pole began moving downstream, pulled by both the current and the fish caught in its hook.

“My pole!” Merry cried in dismay.  “Frodo, we have to get it back!”

Frodo hesitated, not exactly in favor of chasing after a pole that could easily be replaced by Merry’s parents.  Then again, Frodo thought, Saradoc wasn’t the most forgiving hobbit.  Especially if he thought that the pole’s loss had been a result of Merry and Frodo carelessly fooling around.  Merry’s father made it no secret of how much he disapproved of Merry running around with the “rash” Baggins boy all the time, worried Frodo might give his son a bad example to follow.  Frodo frowned.  He didn’t need another lecture from Saradoc, that was certain.

Frodo quickly reeled in his line and leaned over the edge of the raft, pushing it away from shore and into the Brandywine’s current.  Merry’s fishing pole could be seen meters ahead, bobbing up and down frantically in the waters.

“Faster, Frodo!” Merry urged.

“I’m going as fast as the raft will go,” Frodo snapped.  He steered the raft slightly to the left, trying to catch the swifter currents of the river.

The chase went on for several minutes, the raft sometimes closing in on the pole before being suddenly wrenched back by a particularly vicious wave.  Merry bit his lip worriedly, glancing back every once in a while at Frodo, who silently steered the raft, keeping his concentration on the pole far in front of them.

Suddenly, the raft gave a huge jerk, causing both hobbits to be flung forward.  Merry cried out in alarm, his hands scrambling for a hold as he rolled towards the raft’s edge.  Frodo grabbed onto Merry’s shirt and tugged the smaller hobbit to the center of the craft.  The two straightened and glanced around in confusion.  The raft had completely stopped, though the river continued to flow along either side of it.  To the left of the raft a large rock loomed out of the water.  Frodo eyed it warily, grateful that at least they had not smashed into that.

Frodo leaned over the back of the raft and groaned, seeing what had caused their sudden halt.  A mass of underwater weeds had caught onto the rudder, twisting around it tightly.

“Perfect,” grumbled Frodo.  He reached into the water and grasped the weeds.  He gave a tug, but they didn’t move.  Frowning, Frodo pulled harder on the weeds; his efforts had little effect on their choking hold.  Determined not to be defeated by some mere plant growth, Frodo stood and braced his feet against the edge of the raft.  Reaching down, he seized a new, more secure handful of weeds and gave a vicious yank.  Grunting with effort, Frodo continued to pull.

 _Snap!_   The bundle of weeds Frodo grasped suddenly broke in half.  The raft, half freed from the mass of plants, lurched to the right while Frodo was thrown backwards.  Stumbling too far, Frodo felt the edge of the raft beneath his feet.  Then all he saw was sky as he fell.  Merry cried out frantically, one arm flung towards his cousin.

Frodo tried to reach for Merry’s outstretched hand.  But it was too late; out of the corner of his eyes Frodo saw the large rock he had spotted earlier rise from the waves.  An explosion of pain erupted on the back of his head at the same moment he crashed into the river’s waters.  The Brandywine River engulfed him.

/

The sound of rushing waters raged in his ears.  Frodo’s eyes were half open, but the edges of his vision were dimmed.  Bubbles rushed past his sight, followed by bits of weed and dirt.  Frodo tilted his head upwards slightly, pain exploding throughout it as he did so.  The surface of the river was above him.  It seemed so far away, as if he had sunk hundreds of feet in those few moments since he had fallen into the river.  Had he?  How deep did the Brandywine go, anyway?  The light from the water’s surface seemed to shrink horribly fast with every second.

 _I have to swim._   Frodo tried to move his arms, but they wouldn’t respond.  Neither would his legs, after a moment of experimentation.  That was how you swim, right?  By moving your arms and legs?  Frodo wasn’t sure anymore.  How was he going to get back to the surface, then?  To…actually, Frodo wasn’t sure who was waiting above the waves for him.   _Had_  he been with anyone?  Everything seemed blurred, his thoughts washing away with each burst of water that pressed against him.

His chest contracted from the lack of air and Frodo took a breath without thinking; water washed rushed into his mouth and throat.  Frodo retched, coughing wildly.  Air, where was the air?  He needed air!  Frodo struggled desperately, trying to rise from where he drifted.  But his limbs still refused to react.  He was trapped in his body, sinking lower and lower and unable to do anything about it.

_Frodo?_

Frodo started, trying to twist around to see who had spoken to him, but only succeeded in causing a fresh wave of burning pain to erupt in his head.

_Frodo?_

There it was again.  It was a woman’s voice, gentle but unsure.  Frodo frowned, trying to push past the pain and focus on the voice.  But he could not recognize it.

 _Drogo!  Watch out for the rock!  Drogo!_  

 _Mother_.  Frodo gasped, trying to respond, trying to call out to the voice.  More water rushed into his mouth as a result.  He tried to spit it out, but his body’s need for air caused him to swallow it.  His lungs, how they burned! 

_Primula!  Hold onto something!_

Frodo’s body twisted in the water as another push from the current slammed against him.  Everything was so dim, and darkening. Something wrapped around his left ankle, jerking him to a stop.

_Frodo Baggins.  I’m so sorry.  But your parents…they’re dead._

Frodo felt a heaviness press in on him from all sides.  The darkness was increasing – his vision was nearly black.

Then oddly enough, the fire in his lungs began to lessen, as did his need for air.  Even the pain in his head was leaving.

_The Brandywine River.  It took them._

_They’re gone._

_And it’s taking you, too._

Frodo’s eyes closed.  He felt a sudden pressure on his arm.  Then he felt nothing at all.


	3. Chapter 3

"Frodo!" Merry screamed as he leaned over the edge of the raft. " _Frodo!_ "

Merry peered anxiously into the river, trying to catch a glimpse of the elder hobbit amongst the whirling waters. The raft jerked against the weeds and the waves ferociously, threatening to throw Merry into the river after his cousin. Seconds passed as Merry knelt there, part of him desperately hoping that Frodo would simply pop out through the Brandywine's surface, laughing at what a great joke he had pulled on Merry. But time continued to tick by, and Frodo did not resurface.

Merry felt panic settling in. He knew he wasn’t strong enough to pull Frodo up himself, and they were miles away from the closest farm – from help of any kind. Merry spun around anxiously, searching for _something_ he could use to help him pull out Frodo.

"Help!" he screamed desperately towards the shores, in anxious hopes that someone was nearby. " _Please_! Someone,  _help!_ "

No one. Not even a rustle in the grass stretching beyond the far riverbank. Merry turned back to the water, his breath coming in short gasps. He was completely alone.

He knew what he had to do. Taking a deep breath, Merry dove off the raft into the Brandywine River.

/

Water rushed past Merry as he cut through the water. As he slowed he peered about anxiously, searching for any sign of his cousin. He swam forward, hoping that the current hadn't pushed Frodo too far downstream ahead of him.

Then he saw him. Frodo was drifting in the river's current, but not moving forward. His left foot was entangled in weeds, holding him to the river's floor.

Merry frantically swam to his cousin and grasped Frodo's arm so he himself wouldn’t be swept away by the current. Frodo was unconscious, and blood oozed from the back of his head. Merry dove to the weeds wrapped around Frodo's ankle and grabbed a small handful of them, tugging hard. They did not break. Merry pulled again, but to no avail. His chest began to heave, his lungs aching from the lack of air.

He shifted his grip so he was grasping a smaller bundle of the weeds and managed to snap those after two tugs. But as he grabbed for another bunch of the slippery plants, he could feel his movements slowing. The need for air was wearing on him – he did not know how much longer he could last. Weakly pulling on the plants, Merry let out a sob, bubbles streaming from his mouth. He felt his hold on the plants loosening.

Suddenly, strong hands grasped Merry beneath his armpits. He felt the hands give an enormous heave and he was thrust to the river's surface. Merry broke through the water gasping, air rushing back into his lungs. He paddled frantically among the waves, shock coursing through him. Who had grabbed him? He was about to dive back down when an explosion of water erupted next to him. Two heads burst from the waves. One was a male hobbit Merry did not recognize. The other was Frodo, his half-submerged head lolling to the side limply. The stranger pulled Frodo through the river, Merry following close behind. Letting out a faint grunt of exertion, the stranger dragged Frodo a short way up the riverbank before turning Frodo onto his back. Merry crawled to Frodo's other side, leaning over him anxiously.

"Move back," the stranger commanded, pushing Merry away. Merry looked up at their savior and stared in both shock and amazement. This was no hobbit – it was a human man!  _He's enormous_ , Merry thought, gazing up at the man as he leaned over Frodo.

The man paid no attention to Merry. Turning Frodo onto his side, the man pounded firmly on Frodo's back three times. Water started to leak from Frodo's mouth and nostrils, but he showed no signs of waking.

The stranger laid Frodo onto his back and leaned over the limp body, lowering his ear to Frodo's chest. He waited a moment, then shook his head grimly. The man reached beneath Frodo's chin and tiled the small head up before pinching the hobbit's nose shut. Then he leaned down and pressed his mouth to Frodo's. Merry cried out in confused alarm, but was too shocked to move forward and try to push the giant man away from his cousin. The man blew air into Frodo's mouth three times before tilting Frodo onto his side again and thudding on the hobbit's back. On the forth pound, Frodo suddenly jerked in the man's arms and heaved a gurgled cough; water spilled from his mouth as he hacked up the Brandywine's contents.

"Frodo!" Merry exclaimed, leaning forward.

Frodo continued to cough, more water spilling from his mouth with each heave. The strange man held Frodo steadily as he retched. When the river water seemed to have finally been emptied from Frodo's body, he fell back into the stranger's arms, his body shaking uncontrollably.

"Easy there," the man said. His voice was deep – deeper than any hobbit's Merry had heard before – but surprisingly gentle. The man carefully laid Frodo on the ground, keeping his hand behind the small head to support it.

Frodo's eyes flickered weakly for a moment, but he did not open them.

"Frodo?" Merry asked hesitantly. He reached out a hand and lightly touched Frodo's shoulder. Merry glanced at the man, expecting a rebuke, but the man said nothing.

Frodo gave a low moan. His eyebrows twitched together in pain and he tried to bring his hand up to his head, which was still bleeding. Too weak to do so, all he could do was feebly raise his arm a few inches before dropping it back to ground.

"Frodo? Can you hear me?"

"Merry?" Frodo croaked, his voice raw from choking up the river water. His eyes slowly opened, and there was Merry, anxiously leaning over him.

"Oh,  _Frodo_ , thank Elbereth!" Bursting into tears, Merry threw himself onto his cousin's chest, throwing his arms around him tightly. Frodo grunted at the impact, the little air he had in his lungs blown out of him. But after a moment, he raised a shaky arm up and wrapped it around the small body on top of him. A weak smile passed his lips. "Silly Brandybuck," he whispered.

The man watched them for a moment, then leaned forward gently and touched Merry's shoulder. Merry jerked back in surprise, having nearly forgotten the man who had saved them both.

"Let him breathe, lad," the man said. Merry nodded dazedly and obediently sat back on his heels.

Frodo stared up at the man, finally having noticed his presence. "Who are you?" he asked, his blue eyes wide with wonder.

The man smiled. "I am a stranger to these lands, as I'm sure is most obvious to you two. A traveler merely passing through to meet an old friend. It seems a most fortunate thing that I had taken this particular way." He leveled his gaze with Frodo's. "You have quite the gash on your head, young one."

"It's not too bad," Frodo said hesitantly. Feeling stronger, he raised a hand and touched the back of his head. He flinched and wrenched his hand away. His fingers were covered with sticky blood. "I feel as though I am seeing two of everything," he muttered.

"You hit your head extremely hard," the man said. He twisted around and reached behind him to pull forward a leather bag that had been sitting amongst the tall weeds. Rummaging through it, he pulled out a long white strip of cloth.

"What's your name, lad?" he asked, looking at Merry.

"Meriadoc, sir," Merry replied, a bit shyly. He shifted his weight, unsure how to act in front of a human man. He had never met one before. "But…but most folks just call me Merry."

"Merry, could you help me by holding up your friend's head? Your name is Frodo, I take it," he said, looking at Frodo.

Frodo nodded, and winced from the movement. "Yes, sir. But," he added quickly. "I'm perfectly capable of holding up my own head." He pressed his hands into the wet soil, attempting to push himself into a sitting position. Trembling, he managed to rise only about three inches before collapsing onto his side, groaning pitifully. He choked, and a second later was vomiting up all he had eaten that day.

Merry jumped back with a startled exclamation. The man jerked forward and held Frodo up, supporting his head and chest as he retched.

Once Frodo's stomach had emptied itself, the hobbit sagged in the man's arms, having rid himself of any remaining strength. "Sorry," Frodo whispered, too dizzy to be embarrassed.

"Nothing to apologize for," the stranger assured him. "Your body is simply reacting to the trauma." He looked at the smaller hobbit crouched a few feet away. "Merry, if you would," he said, nodding to Frodo's head.

Merry moved back to Frodo's side, careful to pick his way around the bile-covered clump of mushrooms Frodo had eaten earlier that day. Frodo grinned weakly at the look on the younger hobbit's face. Merry took Frodo's head gingerly, trying to still his shaking hands as he supported his cousin.

The man drew out a smaller, square piece of cloth from his bag. Uncorking a flask that hung from his belt, he wet the fabric.

"Don't worry, it's just water," he assured a worried Merry. "I have nothing else with me to clean the wound with, unfortunately." He dabbed at the back of Frodo's head, carefully wiping away the blood and mud from the damp curls. Frodo groaned, pain burning in his wound each time the cloth was run across or around it. Merry watched Frodo's face, and it suddenly looked to him that Frodo was going to be sick a second time. But just at that moment, the man ceased his cleaning and took away the cloth, drawing a sigh of relief from both Merry and Frodo.

Switching the now blood-soaked cloth for the white strip, the man wrapped it around Frodo's head, bandaging the gash securely.

"That's all I can do for now," the man said with a frustrated sigh. "Where do you two live? I'll help you home."

"Brandy Hall. About a mile or so that way," Merry answered, pointing.

The man nodded, then rose himself to a crouching position, readying himself to pick up Frodo and carry him.

"No, I can walk," Frodo murmured, feebly pushing the man away.

"He really is stubborn, sir," Merry said reproachfully, eyeing Frodo. "Won't hardly let anyone do anything for him, whether he needs the help or not."

"Well he most certainly needs the help now, so he is simply going to have to hold his pride," the man replied sternly.

"Not…pri…prideful…" Frodo slurred as he struggled to sit up. But the effort was too much for him and he crumpled into the man's arms with a groan.

Pity flashed across the man’s gray-blue eyes. "Frodo, I can carry you back to Brandy Hall, but you must stay awake."

"Why?" Merry asked.

"He hit his head very hard. It is safest for him to stay awake for at least a couple of hours, to make sure that he is not injured more seriously that we thought. Once the time of danger has passed, he may sleep."

Merry didn't seem quite convinced of this reasoning, but he did not argue.

The man slid his hands beneath Frodo's knees and back, effortlessly lifting the young hobbit into the air. Frodo's head rolled to the side, resting against the man's broad chest. His eyes fluttered weakly, then closed.

"Frodo." The man gave the thin body a shake. "Frodo!"

"Mmm?"

"Don't. Fall. Asleep," the man commanded sternly.

Frodo nodded dimly. The man glanced back at Merry. "Lead the way, Master Merry."

Merry hesitated and turned around, searching for the raft in the river. There it was, still entangled in the weeds and whipping about furiously in the river's current. He sighed, knowing now was not the time to retrieve it. Snatching up the man's bag, he scrambled to the top of the riverbank and started in the direction of Brandy Hall.

"Should we talk of something?" Merry asked. They had only been walking about five minutes or so, but Merry could see that Frodo was struggling to fight off the encroaching call of sleep. "Maybe it will help Frodo stay awake."

"Excellent idea, Merry," the man said. "What would you like to discuss?"

"You," Merry said with sudden excitement. "What's your name? What are you, besides a human, I mean? What are you doing here? How'd you get into the Shire?"

The man laughed – a deep, warm sound. "You are a curious one! Forgive me, I should have introduced myself earlier. I have many names, but you two may call me Strider. I'm a Ranger from the northern lands. Do you know what a Ranger is?"

Merry shook his head. But at the mention of the word "Ranger" Frodo's head tilted up, his eyes lit with interest.

Strider noticed and looked down at him. "Frodo?"

"My…my Uncle Bilbo told me about them…" Frodo said. His voice was barely above a whisper, making it difficult for Merry – who stood at a much shorter height than the man who was carrying Frodo – to hear properly.

"Some of them descend from the line of the human King Isildur…they roam the north, living in the wilderness…but they sometimes visit villages and small towns." Frodo paused, trying to ease the headache that had begun as a result of speaking. "They've been known to help out those less fortunate in those villages…and run evil out of places of good."

"Impressive." The man eyed Frodo carefully. "How do you know so much about us?"

"My uncle told me about them…he's friends with the wizard Gandalf the Grey."

Strider looked sharply at Frodo upon hearing the wizard's name. But he stayed silent, letting Frodo continue.

"I've never met Gandalf," admitted Frodo. "But Bilbo says that he's friends with some Rangers."

"That he is," the man agreed.

Frodo was quiet for a moment, staring at the ground below him. "I…I think I can walk now, if you please. It would be much easier to stay awake if I wasn't being carried. Not that I don't appreciate the gesture," he quickly added.

The man chuckled. "Of course." He stopped and gently lowered Frodo to the ground. He held Frodo suspended a few centimeters above the ground a moment, looking at the young hobbit carefully. "You are certain you are strong enough to walk?"

"Strong enough," Frodo murmured. He stared at his feet as though willing strength to come to them.

The man frowned, but he set Frodo on the ground. He kept a firm arm wrapped around Frodo's waist, giving the hobbit a moment to find his balance. Frodo clutched Strider's arm and swayed uneasily. He closed his eyes, letting a dizzy spell pass. Merry's hold tightened on Strider's bag as he watched his cousin, worry clear on his face. Finally, Frodo released his grip on Strider's arm. He waited a moment, his eyes glued to his feet. Slowly he took a step forward. He swayed, and Strider raised his arms, ready to catch him. But after a moment Frodo shook his head and took another step. He wavered once again and Strider lunged forward, gripping Frodo's arm.

"No, I can walk!" Frodo insisted.

"I know," Strider said. "But would it be alright if you kept one hand on my arm? For support? It would make the rest of the walk much easier."

Frodo was silent for a moment, considering the offer. He glanced at Merry, who nodded furiously. Frodo sighed. "Alright." He laid a hand on Strider's offered arm. Strider smiled at Merry and the three set off again, this time at a much slower pace than when Strider had been carrying Frodo.

Strider noticed that Frodo's grip was steadily tightening as the minutes went on. But Frodo did not complain, nor show signs of slowing. Strider did not offer to carry him, sensing how important it was to the hobbit to do this on his own. Also, he decided it would be the best way to keep Frodo awake.

"Thank you," Frodo whispered.

Strider smiled down at the hobbit. "You are most welcome, Master Frodo."


	4. Chapter 4

The sun had just started to touch the horizon when the three came to the gate that served as the entrance to the courtyard of Brandy Hall.  A few minutes before, Frodo’s exhaustion had finally caught up with him, and – much to his annoyance – he had been forced to relent to Strider’s insistence that he be carried the rest of the way.  It hadn’t been much farther to go after that before they reached the hobbits’ home.

As they walked up the cobbled pathway to Brandy Hall, Strider was struck by how massive it was, even to his human eyes.  The Hall had been built into a large hill, its outside completely wrapping around the mountain of grass and earth.  Strider counted at least half a dozen chimneys, and that was just from a quick glance at the front side of the Hall.  The entrance door was in the center of the Hall’s front; circular and hanging from golden hinges, it was painted a rustic red.

It was just then that the said door burst open, and a plump woman with curly brown hair came running out.

“Merry!”  She rushed forward and gathered Merry into her arms, hugging him fiercely.

“Hello, mama,” Merry said sheepishly.

“Where have you two been?” she demanded.  “I’ve been so worr – oh my.”  Merry’s mother stared at the tall man standing before her, and Frodo, who lay curled up in his arms.  “What happened?”

“He hit his head and fell into the Brandywine River,” Strider said.  “He should be alright, after a few days of rest.  However, I’d think it’d be best to re-clean his cut with proper supplies.  I fear he may also need stitches.  Is he your son?”

“Our nephew.”

Merry’s mother and Strider turned towards the door.  There stood a greying hobbit, eyeing the scene before him with distaste.  He stepped outside of the doorway, his gaze focused on Frodo.  “So he fell in the Brandywine, huh?”

“Yes.”  Strider frowned slightly at the newcomer, noticing how Frodo – upon hearing the male hobbit’s voice – had shifted so that his face was buried in Strider’s cloak.

“I’m not going to say I’m surprised,” the hobbit said coldly.  He glared up at Strider, distrust clear in his eyes.  “And who are you?  It’s not often we have humans in the Shire.”

“I’m merely passing through,” replied Strider.  “I had been traveling near the Brandywine River when I had heard young Merry’s call for help and discovered the two.”

“We are most grateful for your service.”  Merry’s mother said sincerely.  She looked at Frodo, worry on her face.  “Since you are already carrying him, would you mind bringing him inside?  I don’t want to disturb him more than necessary.”

“Esmeralda that’s not necessary –” the male hobbit began.

“Oh, hush, Saradoc,” Esmeralda interrupted.  “My husband can be a little over cautious sometimes, you must forgive him.  Please, come in.  But do watch your head!”

Careful of the small body in his arms, Strider stooped low as he passed beneath the doorframe, entering Brandy Hall.

The entryway to the Hall was huge – the ceiling was tall enough for Strider to stand straight up.  The room was circular with six entrances, the hallways they led to branching out in all directions.  Doorways could be seen down them, leading to various rooms or other hallways.  The faint smell of some type of vegetable soup drifted from the far right hall, accompanied by the scent of freshly baked bread.

It was quite loud.  Various voices could be heard from each hall entrance.  The joyful screams of children playing some exciting game, the chattering of gossiping tweenagers, the idle discussions of adults, and even the distant tinkering of someone playing a harpsichord.

Esmeralda led the group down the second hall from the left.  The noise grew louder as they walked, the calls of children enforcing the game rules becoming more distinct.

“Put me down,” Frodo said suddenly.

“What?” Strider asked, startled by the unexpected outburst.

“Put me down,” repeated Frodo, more urgently this time.  “I can walk.”  The sounds of the children had risen him from his dazed state better than any conversation he had been struggling to have with Strider and Merry had.  His pride and fear of losing any dignity he had among his cousins surged in his chest; he did not want his cousins to see him like this.

Strider did as instructed. Frodo wobbled as he put his weight on his legs, but remained upright. Esmerelda grimaced, watching him with concern.

“Hurry up now, I have things to attend to,” grumbled Saradoc.  He resumed walking, not bothering to look back.  Strider frowned but focused on Frodo, who was following his uncle slowly.

“No, I  _told_ you, I tagged Lula!  I’m not it!”  A young hobbit, looking to be a few years younger than Merry, burst from the doorway in front of them.  Seeing the approaching group he slid to a halt, his smiling broadening upon seeing Merry. “Merry, you’re back!  Oh, hullo, Frodo,” he added listlessly, casting a glance in Frodo’s direction.  He snapped his gaze back to Merry excitedly.  “Merry, where have you been?  You’ve been gone  _all day_ _!_   We –  _whoa_ _!_ ”  The tiny hobbit stared up at Strider, his eyes widening with wonder.  “Where’d you find a giant, Merry?” he asked in awe. 

Merry laughed.  “We didn’t  _find_  him, silly!  He found  _us_ , out by the Brandywine.  And he’s not a giant – he’s a human!”

The younger hobbit’s eyes only seemed to grow larger.  “Is he staying?”

“Only long enough to see these two lads safely home,” Strider answered.

“Why wouldn’t they be safe?” the hobbit asked, looking awfully confused at the notion that Buckland would have anything dangerous within its borders.

“Melilot!  Where’d you go?” a chorus of voices called from the room the young hobbit had just sprung from.

Melilot’s head snapped to the open door.  “Gotta go!  Hurry up and come play with us, Merry!”  The next second, Melilot had disappeared back into the room.

“Go play with your cousins, Merry.”  Esmeralda nudged her son encouragingly.  “We’ll talk about what happened later, after Frodo has been put to bed.”

“No, I want to stay with Frodo,” Merry said firmly.  Pushing past his parents, the little hobbit grabbed his cousin’s hand tightly, his mouth set in a thin line of determination.  Displeasure flickered across Saradoc’s face at this reaction, but Esmerelda simply shrugged and urged the group to continue on.

As they walked, Frodo glanced down at the smaller hobbit strutting proudly beside him.  Upon catching Merry’s gaze, Frodo smiled gratefully at him; Merry squeezed Frodo’s hand in response.

The ruckus created by the playing children did not cease as they walked.  Children would burst from doorways in front of them, running down the hall screaming and diving between the adult’s legs.  Some would stop and gap at Strider as he passed, but most were too caught up in their games to notice.

The hall curved widely to the right, where it eventually cut into a sharp left turn, leading to the back of Brandy Hall.  The children didn’t bother to go farther than that, since their bedrooms and playrooms ended there.  Saradoc stopped at the very last door before the turn and pushed it open.

Inside was a small bedroom.  A neatly made bed was pushed up against the far wall beneath a small window.  The room had a fireplace, the leftover ashes from a forgotten fire unattended to.  Instead of framed pictures, maps were pinned to the walls.  There was no bookshelf, but stacks of books were strewn throughout the room: on top of a dresser, the nightstand, the hearth, even about the floor.  Strider even caught sight of one peeking out from beneath one of the pillows on the bed.

By this time, Frodo’s headache had come back full force.  Feeling painfully dizzy, he let Merry lead him to his bed, where he all but collapsed onto it.

“What tomfoolery were you up to that caused you to slice open your head?” Saradoc demanded.  “Running away from Maggot again?  I tire of hearing about you stealing everything from Brandy Hall to Hobbiton.  As far as I’m concerned, you deserve everything Maggot delves out to you, and more.”

“Saradoc, please!” Esmeralda cut in harshly.  “He is but a child, and is seriously hurt.  Any lectures can wait until the morning.”

Saradoc scowled.  “Very well, the morning then.”  He turned to Strider.  “And you,” he emphasized the acknowledgment by jabbing a finger in Strider’s direction.  “You’ve done your good deed.  Now, if you will, I shall show you the way out.”

“I should like to stay with Frodo for a short while longer, if possible,” Strider said coldly, his gaze hardening as he matched it with Saradoc’s.  “I’ve been trained as a healer, and believe it would be wise if I did a final inspection of his condition before I take my leave.”

“I appreciate what you’ve done for the lad,” said Saradoc.  “But I have never had a human in Brandy Hall during my entire time as Master of Buckland, and I don’t like having one here now.”

“I think it would be in Frodo’s best interest,” Strider replied firmly.

“For Elbereth’s sake, Saradoc,” exclaimed Esmerelda.  “He’s helped Frodo this much already – let him finish attending to him.”

Saradoc’s scowl deepened as he glanced between his wife and the strange man.  Realizing that neither of them had any intention of relenting, his shoulders sagged with an angry sigh.  “Fine. Do what you want with him.  But I will be back in exactly ten minutes to escort you out.”

“Thank you,” Strider said.  He looked at Esmeralda.  “Do you have any alcohol?  I need to properly clean Frodo’s wound.  I also require a needle and thread; I believe I am going to have to stitch it up, it is fairly deep.”

Esmeralda nodded.  “Yes, of course.  I will return in a moment.”

Saradoc turned to Merry.  “Come on, son.”

“But I want to stay with Frodo.”  Merry’s grip on Frodo’s hand tightened.

“No.  I don’t want you here with the human.  Come.”

“But –”

“Meriadoc.   _Now_.”

“Go on,” Frodo said, speaking for the first time since they’d entered the room.  He gave Merry a small nudge.  Merry reluctantly slid down from the bed and trudged to the doorway.  Saradoc placed a hand on Merry’s shoulder, roughly steering him towards the hallway.  Merry tried to look back over his shoulder to catch one more glimpse of Frodo, but the door was already closing.  The door snapped shut, and the man and hobbit were left alone.

Strider and Frodo stared at the door for a long moment.  Strider finally turned, raising an eyebrow at Frodo.  “That is your uncle?”

It was not hard to catch the tone of disapproval in the Ranger’s voice.  “One of them.” Frodo muttered.  He fiddled with one of the braces on his breeches.  “I bring it upon myself, though.”

Strider’s brows drew together.  “How do you come to that conclusion?”

Frodo shrugged.  “I can be a troublemaker.  I play pranks all the time, swipe food from farm fields, go exploring all over Buckland and don’t bother coming back to Brandy Hall until hours after dinner.”

“Nevertheless, your uncle should show  _some_ concern when his nephew has been injured.”

“I’ve been injured before, usually from trying to cause trouble in some way.”

“This is a  _serious_  injury. Frodo, you almost  _drowned_ _._ ”

Frodo shrugged again.  “Saradoc doesn’t know that.  He –” Frodo hissed, clenching his eyes shut as his headache blazed with a sudden throb of pain.  He rubbed his forehead with a groan, trying to ease the painful pulsating.

Strider sighed and pulled a stool over to Frodo’s bedside.  “How else do you fare?  Besides the headache, of course.”

“Still dizzy, though I suppose that’s simply courtesy of the headache,” Frodo muttered.  “I just need some sleep, then I’ll be fine.”

“I shall be the judge of that.  Look me in the eyes.”

“Why?”

“Do as I say,” Strider commanded softly.

Frodo sighed and locked his gaze with Strider’s.  Strider studied the young hobbit’s pupils – to his relief, they were the same size, indication that the lad did not suffer from a serious concussion.  “Now,” Strider said, holding up his index finger.  “Follow my finger with your eyes – not your head.”  Frodo did as told, his eyes easily following Strider’s finger as it moved from left to right.

“Good.  Now stand up.”

Frodo did so.

“Walk from one end of the room to the other three times.”  Frodo smiled at the odd directions, but followed them without argument.  He was slow and cautious as he moved, but Strider did not seem concerned when he finished.  “Very well. Final test – hold out your hand.”

Frodo raised an eyebrow, but did as asked.  Strider reached out and grasped the small hand.  Then he gave the palm a hard pinch.

“Ow!” Frodo wrenched his hand out of Strider’s.  “What was that for?” he asked crossly.

Strider chuckled.  “Your reflexes don’t seem to be having trouble.  Well done, Frodo.  You’ve recovered very well in the short amount of time since your accident.”

“Yes, well, I wish you had somehow lessoned the pain instead of adding to it,” Frodo grumbled.

Strider smirked at the hobbit, who had returned to his seat on the bed.

A knock sounded at the door.  It was opened by Esmeralda, who came in carrying a thin, rectangular box in one hand and steaming mug in the other. 

“I spoke with Saradoc,” she said, her voice firm.  “He is not to disturb us until we have finished tending to Frodo.”  She said nothing more on the matter and crossed the room.  Sitting on the bed next to Frodo, she set the mug on Frodo’s nightstand and the box in her lap.  Inside the box were assorted medical supplies, including a bottle of clear liquid Frodo assumed was the alcohol, and a second stouter bottle containing a thick substance that looked like a medical paste of some kind.

“I brought some healing ointment as well,” she said, gesturing to the stout bottle.  She pulled out a needle and thread from her dress pocket and set it beside the alcohol bottle.  Frodo eyed the needle warily.

Esmeralda touched a hand to Frodo’s shoulder.  “How are you feeling, dear?”

Frodo shrugged.  “Fine, I guess.”

“About what your uncle had said…”

“I said I’m fine,” Frodo snapped.  He bit his lip, instantly regretting the harshness of his tone.  Esmeralda fell silent and removed her hand from Frodo’s shoulder.

“We need to clean your wound, Frodo,” Strider said.  Understanding that Frodo and his aunt should talk alone, he hoped to complete his task quickly so that they could have their privacy.

“Why don’t you change into a nightshirt first, Frodo,” Esmeralda suggested softly.

“Yes, Aunt Esmeralda,” Frodo said.  Guilt pooled in his stomach as he observed her wilted demeanor.  He got up from the bed and walked to where his closet was.  Picking out a simple nightshirt, he moved behind the closet door and changed quickly, leaving his dirty and torn clothes on a nearby chair.

At Esmeralda’s prodding, Frodo lay on the bed on his stomach.  Esmerelda and Strider stood over the side of the bed, leaning over Frodo.  Esmeralda carefully unwrapped the dirty, bloody bandage from his head, emitting a groan of dismay when the gash on her nephew’s head was revealed.

The wound was about five centimeters in length, and alarmingly deep.  Luckily, it did not look infected.  Upon being exposed to the open air, fresh blood began seeping from the torn flesh.  Frodo flinched, biting back a moan.

“We should cut off his hair surrounding the wound,” Strider said reluctantly, glancing at Frodo’s thick locks. “It would be easier to put the stitches in, and make the procedure more sanitary.”

“Fine,” Frodo said tightly.

Strider and Esmeralda exchanged glances.  Esmeralda pulled out a pair of scissors from the box she had brought and began to snip away at Frodo’s hair.  She bit her lip sadly as she watched the dark curls tumble onto the bed sheets, but they all knew that nothing could be done about it.  She finished quickly; the spot around the wound now had only a fine layer of short hairs barely a centimeter in length.  The spot contrasted sharply with the rest of Frodo’s head, making the mop of curls look off and awkward.

Strider dampened a cloth Esmeralda had brought with the alcohol from the medical kit.  “This is going to sting,” Strider warned Frodo as he raised the cloth to the young hobbit’s head.

“I know,” Frodo said.  He gripped the blanket covering his bed, readying himself.  “Just do it.”

Strider dabbed the cloth to the gash, immediately causing Frodo to flinch and let out a low hiss.  As Strider cleaned the wound, Frodo’s shoulders tensed and his knuckles turned ghostly white from their grip on the blanket.  Esmeralda grasped one of Frodo’s hands, holding her breath.  When he was satisfied that the wound was clean, Strider set the cloth down and let Frodo steady himself before the stitching began.  Frodo did not relax.  He kept the same position, his eyes boring into the bed’s headboard.

Strider grimly took the threaded needle Esmeralda offered to him.  Squeezing Frodo’s shoulder in reassurance, he began to sew up the wound.

Frodo’s breath came in short gasps, and he ground his teeth to keep from crying out.  Tears pricked at Esmeralda’s eyes as she squeezed Frodo’s hand.  As the stitching continued, Frodo’s eyes began to lose their focus; he looked as though he might either be sick or faint.

From the angle he sat at, Strider could see Frodo’s eyes flutter weakly.  Worried the young hobbit might pass out before he was finished, Strider hastily tied off the final stitch.  He applied the healing ointment, trying to be both fast but gentle.  Snatching up the white cloth strip Esmeralda had brought, he wrapped it snugly around Frodo’s head.

Frodo moaned weakly as the bandage was tied in place.  Esmeralda and Strider gently turned the young hobbit onto his side, laying him against the pillows Esmeralda had propped up but careful not to put pressure on the wound.

“Frodo?” Strider asked.

“Hurts,” murmured Frodo, dazed.

“Here, dearest,” Esmeralda coaxed, holding out the mug she had placed on his nightstand earlier.  “This will help you sleep and ease the pain.”  She held the mug against his lips.  Frodo drank the tea numbly, his eyes drooping from the effort of keeping conscious.  Already exhausted, the tea’s effects were quick on him.  The mug had barely been taken away from his mouth before Frodo’s head fell back against the pillows, his eyes drooping closed.  He sighed deeply, his breath falling into an uneasy – but consistent – breathing pattern.

Esmeralda brushed the sweat-dampened curls away from Frodo’s forehead and pressed a light kiss against the pale skin.

Strider stood, feeling more like an intruder than ever before.  “I should go.”  Esmeralda looked up at him, surprised at the sudden hurry the ranger exerted.  “Be sure to wake him every four or five hours.  Check his balance, reflexes, and ability to move and speak.”  Strider quickly explained to her the various tests he had done on Frodo, so she could repeat them later.  “If he cannot do any of these, call for a physician immediately.  You have a physician in Buckland, I presume?”

“Of course,” Esmeralda said.  She held her head higher, her offense at the question obvious.

“My apologizes, I only wanted to make sure.”

“Will you not stay?  I am not very talented when it comes to medical needs.”

Strider looked over at Frodo regretfully.  “I cannot, I am afraid.  Besides, I do not believe your husband would take too kindly to my prolonging my visit.”

“I do apologize for his behavior,” Esmeralda cast a rueful glance towards the door.  “He is so slow to trust others, especially those not of our kind.”

“I understand,” Strider said.  “However, I must leave.  I have business in Hobbiton.”

“Do you?” Esmeralda said, the interest peaking in her voice.  Curiosity burned within her; what business could a human possibly have in Hobbiton?  “Do you know the way?”

“I believe I can find it from here,” smiled Strider.

“Let me at least point you in the right direction.  It’s quite a journey from here, you know.  Especially on foot.”

“I am aware.”

“I shall fetch you some food and water too.  It’s the least I can do, in repayment for you helping my nephew,” she said.  She held up her hand to halt any arguments Strider was planning to put forth and led him to the bedroom door.

“I am most grateful.”  Strider bowed low before Esmeralda, then straightened (as best he could beneath the low ceiling) and cast a glance at Frodo.  “Take care of him.”

“I will.”

Tearing his gaze away from the sleeping hobbit, Strider stooped through the open doorway.  Esmeralda followed, closing the door behind her.

/

Hours later, the door to Frodo’s bedroom creaked open.  Soft footsteps crossed the room, coming to a halt before the bed Frodo slept in.  There was a tiny grunt, and a small form leaped onto the bed.

The impact jolted the bed’s occupant awake, causing him to sit up in alarm.  Moaning at the pain that suddenly shot through his head, Frodo squinted into the inky darkness, trying to spot his intruder.

“Frodo?” a soft voice asked.

“Merry?”  Frodo felt the bed’s mattress shift as Merry crawled to the space between Frodo and the wall the bed was pushed against.  Amused, Frodo moved over to make room for the tiny body.  Merry slipped between the sheets and burrowed his head beneath the bigger hobbit’s right arm; Frodo slung his arm over his cousin’s shoulder, his hand lightly resting on the small chest.

“I’m sorry I made you go after my fishing pole,” Merry whispered.

Frodo tightened his arm around Merry.  “It wasn’t your fault.  It was an accident.  If anything, my thick-headedness is to blame.  If I hadn’t gone about freeing the raft in such a stupid way, maybe my head wouldn’t be stitched up like one of Aunt Esmeralda’s embroidered handkerchiefs.”

Merry smiled into the darkness.  “Stubborn Baggins.”

“Silly Brandybuck.”

Merry was quiet for a moment.  He fiddled with the sheets, noting how loud the rustling sounded in the dead of the night.  He sighed.  When he spoke, his voice was trembling.  “I was so scared, Frodo.  I tried to pull you up, but your foot was caught in weeds, and the river was moving so fast, and I couldn’t hold my breath any more –”

“Now, now, it’s alright, Merry.”  Frodo moved his head so that his cheek rested on top of Merry’s head.  “You were so brave, Merry.  I’m so proud of you.”

Merry sniffled.  The two lay there for a while, the chirping of the crickets outside of Frodo’s window filling the silence.

“Does it hurt?”

“Mm?” Frodo blinked, having nearly fallen asleep again.  Merry repeated the question.  “Oh.”  Frodo was silent for a moment, contemplating whether his head did hurt or not.  Half asleep, he wasn’t so sure.  “Not so much right now.  As long as I don’t move around too much.  Or think too much,” he added jokingly.

“Well then you should feel fine,” Merry said.  “You never think!”

Frodo nudged Merry playfully.  “Oh hush, you.”

Merry giggled.

“Good night, Merry,” Frodo whispered, adjusting the blanket so it fully covered both of them.

“Night, Frodo,” Merry murmured sleepily.

Sleep overcome them quickly, their presence a comfort to each other as dreams embraced them.


	5. Chapter 5

Esmeralda checked on Frodo twice more during the night and the morning that followed, testing him as Strider had instructed.  Merry – who was awake for the final one – watched with amusement, letting out a small giggle when Esmeralda pinched Frodo.  Frodo gave Merry a firm push in response, making the smaller hobbit topple back onto the rumpled bed sheets with a squeak.

Satisfied that her nephew passed Strider’s tests, Esmeralda declared that in spite of that, Frodo would have to be bed-ridden for at least the following week.  Ignoring Frodo’s cries of protest, she gathered up his mud-splattered clothes from the day before and left the room, saying she would be back with breakfast in an hour or so.

“Get dressed, Merry.  You have chores to do after breakfast,” she called as she left.  “And hurry up, or your father will hear about it!”

Frodo and Merry sat back on the bed in unison, their arms crossed and their faces twisted into scowls.

“This is stupid,” Frodo grumbled.  “I don’t want to stay in bed for a  _week_!  That’s the most boring, worst punishment she could think of!”

“Why should I have to do chores while you sit here, being waited on hand and foot?” demanded Merry.  “It’s unjust, it is.  I refuse to bend to the will of those without a heart for the meek and tiny!”

Frodo cast an amused glance at his cousin.  “Meek and tiny?  That doesn’t sound like how you’d describe yourself.”

Merry shrugged.  “It helps with the sympathy.  How else am I supposed to win over our relatives?”

“With your wit and charm?”

Merry stuck out his lower lip in a pout.  “Mother will probably give me your chores stacked on top of mine.  That’s how she does things, giving her son the harshest work over all his spoiled cousins!  Drive me to an early grave, she will!”

Frodo felt a smile tug at the side of his mouth.  “Yeah, well, when you’ve finished both your and my chores, don’t hesitate to come by and bring whatever mushrooms you find around Brandy Hall’s gardens.  I’m starving for some.”

Merry glared at Frodo.  “I’ll do no such thing!” he jumped down from the bed, his hands on his hips.  “I see I’ll be getting no sympathy from  _you_ , then!  Fine, I’ll just be leaving then!  Have fun doing  _nothing_ , Baggins!”

“Don’t exert yourself too much out there!” Frodo called cheerfully as Merry stomped out of his room.  “Wouldn’t want you to faint or come down with a fever!”  Merry responded by slamming Frodo’s bedroom door shut as hard as possible.

Frodo lay back against his pillows with a grin.  His amusement quickly deflated once he realized that he truly was imprisoned in his room for the following seven long days.  There was no hope of getting out of it.  Once Aunt Esmeralda made a decision, she stuck with it.  Frowning, Frodo gazed around his room, trying to think of how he could amuse himself for a week.  He looked up and stared at the large map he had pinned to the ceiling above his bed.  It was a map of the night sky and illustrated dozens of constellations.

Frodo’s maps were one of his most proud aspects of his bedroom.  No one else in Brandy Hall seemed to care for maps, but Frodo thought they were fascinating.  Even though he had no way of traversing outside the Shire by himself just yet, maps were one of the ways he  _could_  explore the world from the close quarters at Brandy Hall.  Most of them had been given to him by Uncle Bilbo, though a few he had managed to buy using coins he would find forgotten in the nooks and crannies of Brandy Hall.

Frodo turned his attention to the piles of books lying about his room.  Unfortunately, he was sure he had read all of the books he owned.  He sighed, boredom already settling in.  It was going to be a long week.

/

As Merry had predicted, he had been given Frodo’s chores added onto his own.  Some had been dispersed to the other children, but the majority had been given to the young Brandybuck.  Merry was quite upset by this, and – as revenge upon the culprit – decided he would refuse to visit his bed-ridden cousin until the chores were restored to their “rightful master.”

This left Frodo in quite a lonely predicament.  None of the other children bothered to ask where their Baggins cousin had gone to, and when told didn’t show any signs of wanting to visit him.  None of the cousins particularly  _disliked_  Frodo; they simply just didn’t find much fun in being with him.  He was either too old, too outgoing, or just too plain odd for them.

Though the Brandybuck children were wild and quite monstrous when playing their games with each other, they weren’t the same kind of “wild” Frodo was.  They stayed within the borders of Buckland and didn’t normally stray far from Brandy Hall unless they were going on a trip somewhere.  They liked their home.  There was no sense in leaving to find other lands where potentially dangerous persons or creatures could be waiting for them.  No, it was better to stay where they knew every rock and blade of grass that passed beneath their feet.

How odd to them that a hobbit would want to venture beyond Buckland, let alone the lands of the Shire.  No one left the Shire – it was absurd to even think about.  Yet that young Baggins insisted that he would do just that someday, making others quite uncomfortable and unsure how to respond to such a ridiculous notion.

Frodo Baggins’ games were often quite strange, too.  He preferred pretending about dragons and battles and magic, and liked traversing to the less-traveled parts of Buckland to act out these games.  None of the other Brandybuck children really had a desire to go out that far, especially with the Baggins boy.  And so, they left him to his own fantasies.

Merry was really the only Brandybuck who made a point to spend time with Frodo.  He adored his cousin and loved playing his “strange” games with him.  And though he was sometimes intimidated by Frodo’s brashness, he knew he would be fine as long as Frodo was with him.

Unsurprisingly, the older hobbits were slightly put off that Saradoc Brandybuck’s son would go off traversing with Frodo Baggins.  But Merry didn’t quite go as often or as far as Frodo, and he spent time with the other children as well.  And so they forgave his actions, deciding it was just a phase that would pass soon enough.

/

It had been three days, and no one – besides Esmeralda – had come to see Frodo.  It was driving him insane.

Frodo paced his room, frustration eating away at him.  How could Merry not come?  It stung him to know that  _no one_  – especially Merry – had bothered to come and see him.  Tears pricked his eyes as the far away sounds of children playing in the gardens outside his window could be heard.

 _I hate this place._   He thought, giving a book laying on the floor a swift kick.  It flew across the room and smacked into the far wall, a few pages fluttering out of it as it sunk to the floor.   _Everybody hates me here.  I wish someone would come and take me away._   He came to a stop in front of the fireplace, staring at the old ashes.   _I can’t sit here any longer.  I have to do something, or I shall go mad._

Changing out of his nightshirt into normal day clothes, Frodo took a few steps towards his bedroom door before stopping short with a frown.  There were too many children down that hallway – he would most certainly be seen and his aunt alerted before he even reached the main hall.  No, that wouldn’t do at all.  Frodo climbed onto his bed and pushed at his window.  It wouldn’t budge.  Bending down, Frodo saw that his window had been locked shut from the outside; a new latch had been nailed into the window pane.  His aunt’s doing, no doubt.  With a scowl, Frodo began searching his room for some sort of tool to work the lock open.

Sorting through the stacks of papers on his desk, Frodo discovered a divider caliper that Bilbo had given him for his birthday years ago.  Frodo rushed back to the window and eased the caliper between the two window panes that the latch was holding shut.  Biting his lip in concentration, Frodo moved the caliper beneath the latch.  He pushed upwards and the latch popped off the nail, releasing the window pane with a soft click.

Smiling triumphantly, Frodo slipped the caliper into his breeches’ pocket and pushed the window open.  Seeing no one standing about, Frodo pushed himself through the window and dropped to the dark soil below with ease.

It was much brighter outside.  Frodo squinted his eyes and winced, the intensity of the sunlight making his head ache slightly.  Shaking his head, he left the garden and headed for the eastern side of Brandy Hall.

Frodo made it to the other side of Brandy Hall easily enough, keeping out of sight from windows and careful to avoid places he knew the Brandybucks often spent their time outside.  Finally, he reached the large windows that lined the wall of the Brandy Hall kitchen.  He crouched beneath the window and peered over the sill just far enough to see inside.

The luncheon meal had been over an hour ago, so the cooks had already cleaned up and left.  Frodo eyed the large pantry in the corner of the kitchen with a grin.  _This is too easy_.

Pulling open the window, Frodo crawled through it and rolled onto one of the kitchen counters.  He knocked a jar of beans across the counter, causing them to rattle noisily.  Grimacing, he slid to the floor and crawled beneath the large cutting table that stood in the center of the kitchen.  A second passed, but no one came into the room. Frodo shrugged and made his way to the pantry door.  He opened it and slipped inside.

The pantry was huge.  Ten rows of shelves stood on each wall, full to the brim with food and cooking ingredients.  Frodo picked through the shelves casually, occasionally snatching up a piece of bread or pastry that caught his eye.

“– I am simply saying that you are much too hard on the lad.”

Frodo jerked in surprise, not remembering hearing the kitchen door swing open.  He dropped to the floor of the pantry, searching for a place to hide.

“And why shouldn’t I be?  He has no sense of responsibility or respect.  He needs someone to teach him the consequences of his reckless actions.”  Frodo frowned, recognizing Saradoc’s voice.

“I realize that he often gets himself into…troublesome circumstances –” Esmeralda replied.

Saradoc scoffed.

“– but he’s also very lonely, Saradoc.  He has almost no friends here, besides Merry.”

Frodo stiffened.  They were talking about him.

“That is another concern,” Saradoc cut in.  “I do not like how much time Merry spends with him.”

“Why?” Esmeralda asked sharply.

“Because I do not want Frodo influencing him.  I don’t want Merry to become…odd.”

Frodo bit his lip, unable to deny the sting he suddenly felt in his chest.  He looked down at the pastries he clutched, tears pricking his eyes.  He knew that everyone at Brandy Hall thought him…off.  Even his aunt and uncle.  But to hear them actually  _say_  it, confirm it with their own mouths…

Esmeralda did not answer for a moment.  “Saradoc.  I know Frodo is a tad…different from the other children here.”

“That is putting it gently.”

“ _But_ ,” Esmeralda continued, her voice a bit louder in response to the interruption.  “Despite that, and despite his…thieving problem, he’s still a good lad.  He wants to please you, I can tell.  And he’s trying, in his own way.  He  _wants_  to fit in, but just…can’t.”

“He’s a Baggins. He’ll never fit in here.”

Frodo clenched his eyes shut at the harsh words.  His chest heaved as he struggled to inhale shaky breaths, but his attempts to keep silent made it harder to draw in air.

“Saradoc –”

“I have to go, Esmeralda. Merimac and I must go to the market today and try to sell that blasted goat he  _insists_  will fetch a good price.  We shall be back in a couple of hours.”

The annoyance in Esmeralda’s voice was unmistakable. “Very well. But we _will_ finish this conversation.”

Saradoc gave an irritated sigh.  “We’ll see.”  There was sound of heavy footsteps, and then the opening and shutting of a door.

Frodo could hear his aunt pace the kitchen for a minute, her hand tapping across the cutting table restlessly.  She sighed, then left through the same door her husband had shortly before.  All fell quiet.

Frodo sat on the pantry floor for a long time, staring at the stolen food in his lap.  He gave a wretched sob and pressed his aching forehead to his knees, wrapping his arms around himself as he wept quietly.

/

Some time later, Frodo finally sat up and wiped his face.  He stood, not caring about the stolen food as it tumbled to the floor.  No longer hungry, he left the pantry and climbed out through the window he had come in through.

Outside, Frodo broke into a full run.  He didn’t care if anyone saw him – he just wanted to get as far away from Brandy Hall as he could.  But he had barely made it ten feet into the first wheat field when he found himself facing a small group of children who had been playing some sort of chasing game in the tall grains.

Among them was Merry.  Merry looked at Frodo in surprise, as did the other children.

“Frodo?  What are you doing out here?” Merry asked.  The other children looked at each other with wary glances, not really caring to hear what they were sure would turn into a boring conversation.

“Merry, we’ll be over by the pony fence, okay?” One of the older children tapped Merry’s shoulder. 

“Fine,” Merry said sharply.  The children shrugged at each other and left the field.  Merry frowned at Frodo.  “I thought you were supposed to be  _resting_.  Shouldn’t mother be bringing you pastries or something right now?”

Frodo clenched his jaw.  He didn’t need to hear this now, not after what had happened in the kitchen.  “I am tired of your childish whining and excuses, Merry.  You’re supposed to be my  _friend_ , and you’re acting just like everyone else here.  A typical Brandybuck,” he spat.

Merry bristled, his face turning red.  “Well, you know what I think?  I think you’re an oddity who’s spoiled by a bizarre uncle that no one likes either.  You’re a  _Baggins_ , Frodo.  No one wants to be around you.  And neither do I!”

Frodo stared at Merry in shock.  Merry’s blush darkened and his lip began to tremble, as if it suddenly dawned on him what he had just said.  But seconds passed in silence, and Merry said nothing to retract the words that had tumbled from him.

Frodo took a step away from Merry, his whole body shaking with fury.  He opened his mouth but snapped it shut a second later, unsure how to respond.  Then he burst into a run, dashing around Merry and disappearing into the tall wheat crops.

Tears blurred Frodo’s vision as wheat whipped his cheeks and tangled in his hair. Pain registered faintly in the back of his head, but he paid it no heed. As long as he didn’t have to face Merry. Merry. His only friend at Brandy Hall. And now he had no one.

He thought he heard someone calling his name in the distance, but his head was pounding too much for him to discern if it was real or not.  His headache had come back again, throbbing relentlessly.  Pain shot through his skull in sharp spasms, spreading out from where his wound was.  He was dizzy and exhausted, but couldn’t seem to stop running.  The wheat field seemed to go on forever.  Endless rows of golds and browns, all shaking in mocking laughter at Frodo as he brushed past them.

Finally, the pain was too much for Frodo.  He felt himself sinking to the earth.  Before he had even touched the ground, he lost consciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

When Frodo woke it was dark outside.  A moment passed before he realized he was back in his bed.  A fire danced sadly in his fireplace, the crackling of the flames the only sound in the room.  The night sky stared down at him through his window, thin clouds half covering the distant moon.  He groaned, bringing a hand to his still-throbbing head.

“Frodo?”

Frodo started and snapped his head towards the voice, wincing at the movement.  There sat his aunt, worry etching lines into her face.  And – to his surprise – sitting next to her was Merry.  His eyes were red and puffy, as if he had been crying.  Upon seeing Frodo awake he leaned forward anxiously.

“Frodo?” Merry said, his voice shaky and small.  Frodo did not look Merry in the eye. He glanced at his aunt and then turned away.  Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?

“How are you feeling, dear?” asked Esmeralda.

Frodo did not answer.  He did not want to talk to his aunt, not after hearing her conversation with Saradoc in the kitchen.  He kept his back to them, pressing his lips together in silence.

Esmeralda sighed.  “Merry, go wait outside.”

“But –”

“ _Now_ , Merry.  You may see Frodo after I am done speaking with him.”

Merry gave an annoyed huff but did as was told.  Once the door had closed Esmeralda turned back to Frodo.  Frodo shifted uncomfortably beneath her gaze, then gave a small gasp of surprise as a spark of pain shot through his right thigh.  He pushed aside his nightshirt to see that it had been bandaged.

“The caliper that had been in your pocket pricked you fairly deeply when you collapsed in the field,” Esmeralda said.  “I am keeping it my possession until I feel you are responsible and trustworthy enough to have it back.” 

Frodo lay in angry silence.

“Frodo, you are making it very difficult on yourself to heal properly.  You betrayed my trust, and Saradoc’s, and left your room.  You could have brought serious further injury to yourself and –”

“Betrayed your  _trust_?” Frodo said as he finally turned to face her.  Anger flared in his eyes.  “Betrayed  _Saradoc’s_  trust?  Uncle Saradoc doesn’t give a damn over what happens to me, you and I both know that.”

Esmeralda frowned.  “You should give your uncle more credit.  He –”

“No!  I shouldn’t.  And he shouldn’t give me any credit either.  We clearly know each other enough to understand that we’re never going to get along.  We’re not meant to.  I’m a  _Baggins_.  That alone is enough for him to hate keeping me here.”

Esmeralda stared at Frodo.  “Frodo –”

“I heard you too in the kitchen earlier today,” Frodo seethed.  “I was in the pantry,  _stealing food_  – as you both hate so much – when I heard you.”

Esmeralda’s eyes widened, horrified shame flickering in them.  She tried to say something but Frodo continued, not allowing her to speak.

“I know you all think I’m strange.  And I’m  _sorry_  if I’ve…embarrassed you or inconvenienced you by being here.  Ship me off to Bree or some other place if you want.  But don’t lie to my face, pretending that you love me when I know you don’t.”

Tears welled in Esmeralda’s eyes.  She was silent for a moment, unsure how to respond.  “Frodo, let me first say this,” she said slowly.  “We  _love_  you, and there is nothing that could change that.”

Frodo opened his mouth to retort but she held up her hand, stopping him.

“No, Frodo.  Let me speak.  Yes, your pranks and thieving episodes can… _frustrate_  your uncle and me.  And sometimes we are not sure how to respond to you when you bring up these notions of leaving the Shire and meeting elves and other strange folk.  It’s not exactly a normal thing for a hobbit to say.   _But_ , that doesn’t mean we don’t want you here.  I could  _never_  be embarrassed of you.” 

She sighed.  “Frodo, your uncle…he is a hobbit who lives by tradition.  That’s all he understands – and wants to understand.  He would never admit it, but he is scared of change, and scared of things that he cannot comprehend.  You are something that spirals away from that of a normal, traditional hobbit.  It frustrates him, not knowing how to respond to you.  He fears for you and your desires to explore.  And so he keeps his distance while at the same time tries to keep you close by.  Because he doesn’t understand you, but desperately wants to keep you safe.”

Frodo sat there, his arms crossed and his mouth drawn into a frown.  This was not how he perceived his uncle.  He rubbed at his forehead in frustration, trying to comprehend what his aunt told him.  Then he sighed and glanced at the outside sky through his window.

“I have no friends here,” he whispered.  He cast his eyes down in shame, afraid to look at his aunt.  “No one wants to spend time with me.  Not even Merry anymore.”

“Was he not here a few minutes ago, sitting by your bedside?”

“He told me exactly the same thing had Saradoc said.”  Frodo’s voice hushed, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.  “That I’m strange, and he didn’t want to be around me.”

“I know.  He was the one who told us what happened and where you’d gone.”

Frodo blinked at Esmeralda in surprise.

She nodded.  “I had gone to give you your afternoon tea and medicine, but you weren’t there.  Moments later Merry burst into the room, out of breath and rambling about you running off into the wheat field.  Saradoc and Merimac had already left for the market, but Seredic and Milo were here and they volunteered to go look for you.  Merry insisted on coming along.  The three went off into the field and came back about a quarter of an hour later with Seredic carrying you.  Merry was holding your hand and completely out of sorts. It took me some time to calm him down.”

Frodo stared.  “I…I didn’t think…”

“That your little cousin loved you anymore?”  Esmeralda shook her head.  “Frodo, you and Merry are both very young.  And young lads say things when they’re angry that they don’t  _really_  mean.  Merry loves you.” She laid a gentle hand on Frodo’s arm. “Why don’t you let him tell you himself?  I’ll let you two talk.”  She stood and went to the door.

“Aunt Esmeralda?”

Esmeralda paused, her hand on the door handle.

“I’m sorry.”

A soft smile spread across Esmeralda’s lips.  “I know, Frodo.”  She opened the door and Merry stumbled into the room, clearly having been leaning against the door with his ear pressed against it to listen.  Esmeralda shook her head, a shadow of amusement on her face.  “I will be in the parlor if you two need me.”

Esmeralda left, and Merry stood in front of the door awkwardly, rubbing his left foot against his right ankle and staring at the floor quietly.  Moments passed, the only sound in the room that of the fire crackling softly.

Merry sniffled and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.  He kept his gaze on the floor as he finally spoke.  “Frodo…” The name was barely more than a whisper.  “I’m sorry I said those things to you.  I didn’t mean them.  I really didn’t.”  He gave a sob.  “I was just angry that you were inside all day while I was doing chores, and then I had to play with the other kids and they’re  _so_  boring compared to you, and that made me even more frustrated, but I couldn’t go see you because then I’d go back on my own promise to myself I wouldn’t see you until I didn’t have to do both our chores, and I was angry at myself for being stupid about the chores, but I wouldn’t let myself  _not_  be angry at you about it, and then you got angry at me, and I got even more angry, and…and…oh, Frodo I’m  _really_  sorry!”  The last word came out as a hiccupped sob, followed by an explosion of tears.

Halfway through Merry’s apology, Frodo had started to untangle himself from his sheets and was attempting to get down from his bed.  Once Merry started crying Frodo hurriedly crossed the room and knelt on the floor, gathering the sobbing hobbit into his arms.

“Merry, it’s okay,” Frodo said soothingly.  “I’m sorry too.  I didn’t mean to get angry at you out in the field.  It was stupid of me.”

“But you had every right too,” Merry hiccupped.  “I was being so awful to you.”

“I suppose we were both being rather awful to each other.”  Frodo squeezed his cousin and let the little hobbit cry into his shoulder, soaking the sleeve of his shirt.  “But it’s alright now.  I’m just glad you still want to be around me.”

“Of course I do!” Merry said in horror.  “Frodo, you’re my most favorite cousin I have.”

“You don’t think I’m strange?”

Merry shook his head furiously.  “Of course not!  And neither is Bilbo.  I didn’t mean what I said about him either.  I’m so sorry.”

Frodo’s smiled shakily.  “Thanks, Merry.”

“Everyone else is simply too dull to appreciate your and Bilbo’s brilliance,” Merry huffed.

“Well, I’m glad that at least you like our company.”

“Any high-end hobbit would,” Merry said matter-of-factly.

Frodo chuckled. He pressed a kiss to Merry’s curls, pulling the younger hobbit into a fierce embrace.

/

For the next six days (Esmeralda had added on a couple days to Frodo’s “sentence” as punishment for his run through the wheat field), as soon as Merry was done with his chores he would rush to Frodo’s room.  After dumping whatever food he’d managed to swipe out onto Frodo’s bed, the two would engage themselves in various activities to pass the time.  Merry would tell Frodo of any news he had heard drifting through Brandy Hall, and also relate – in elaborate detail – any stories of his doings that he deemed worth telling for that day.  Then they’d play games, or Frodo would read a story to Merry, or try to teach him how to read maps.  Merry thought the maps were especially interesting.  And when Frodo lamented over Esmeralda taking away his caliper, Merry declared that he would steal it back for him.

As promised, the following morning Merry strutted into Frodo’s room, brandishing the recovered caliper proudly.

“Well done, you little thief!” Frodo exclaimed joyfully, taking the offered caliper.

“I  _did_  learn from the best,” Merry said, looking particularly proud of himself.

A few times Frodo had discussed attempting to escape his bedroom with Merry.  However, Merry put a firm stop to the idea every time, convinced that his beloved cousin who keel over dead if he stepped outside again before his designated sick period had passed.

Finally the six days had gone by and Frodo was free to leave his room.  Esmeralda didn’t want Frodo to exert himself too much and tried to convince him to stay within the boundaries of Brandy Hall, at least until his wound had completed healed.  Frodo would hear none of it; he was too excited to finally be outside again.  Merry decided to make plans with Frodo to recover the raft from the Brandywine – if it hadn’t been dashed to pieces by this point.  But the plans were cut short by Esmeralda’s decided punishment for their trespassing on “poor Farmer Maggot’s” fields.  They were to pick a basket full of mushrooms and bring it personally to Farmer Maggot with a full apology.

Neither hobbit took to this idea very well.

“He’ll tear us to shreds, feed us to his dogs, and tear whatever’s left into more shreds!” Merry wailed.

“I agree with Merry, there is no chance Maggot will let us walk out of there in one piece,” said Frodo with a nod of his head.

“You two dramatize everything,” Esmeralda said in exasperation.  She shoved a large basket into Frodo’s hands.  “Now go.  And I will be sending a letter to Maggot later this week to follow up.  So don’t even consider abandoning your trip to Bamfurlong and eating those mushrooms for yourselves.”

Esmeralda had been hesitant in making Frodo walk the whole way to Maggot’s farm, for fear of him over-exerting himself.  She offered to have Saradoc bring him over in one of the wagons, but Frodo immediately declined, saying that he needed no help and was perfectly capable of walking there himself, thank you very much.  His aunt reluctantly relented, but insisted on Frodo taking his time getting there and coming straight back afterwards.

And so Frodo and Merry went off into the Buckland fields in search of mushrooms to fill up their apology-basket with.  It took longer than expected, as Merry would eat the mushrooms he found more often than contribute them to the basket.  However, after receiving a sharp smack to the head from Frodo, he stopped.  Though he didn’t do so without a lot of grumbling.

It was around the time elevensies would be being served back at Brandy Hall when Frodo and Merry made it to Bamfurlong, a full basket hanging between their hands.

“I’m never going to see another breakfast.  Or second breakfast.  This is it – we’re going to die,” Merry whimpered.

Frodo rolled his eyes and pulled Merry towards the barn, his mouth set in determination. _Just give him the basket and get out. That’s it._

Frodo had barely risen his hand to knock on the door when it suddenly opened.  The familiar, scowling face of Farmer Maggot loomed out from the gloomy inside.

“What do you want?  Will you trespassing troublemakers never leave me in peace?” he demanded, swinging the door open wide and brandishing a small gardening shovel.

Merry stepped back in alarm, a terrified squeak escaping him.

Frodo stayed where he was, determined not to let the farmer intimidate him.  “Hello, Farmer Maggot.  I’m Frodo Baggins, and this is my cousin, Meriadoc Brandybuck. We are here to apologize for stealing your mushrooms the other day.  As penance for the stolen goods here is a basket of mushrooms we picked ourselves.  Not from your fields, of course, but ones by Brandy Hall.”  Frodo finished by shoving the basket into the surprised farmer’s hands, his breath short from saying his apology in one long, quickly-said string of sentences.

The farmer stared at them for a moment, then at the basket, confusion and surprise clear on his face.

“Well,” Frodo said after a few seconds had passed.  “We hope you like them. Good morning to you!” And with that he began pulling Merry back towards the hill that would lead them to the river, away from Bamfurlong.

“Oi! You two!”

Frodo and Merry stopped, flinching at the farmer’s rattling voice.  They turned and looked back at him.

“Be careful out there.  It can get dangerous by the Brandywine.”

The two hobbits stared at the farmer.  That was the last thing they expected to hear from the old hobbit.  Farmer Maggot’s face seemed to soften for a moment as he looked at the two.  But then his usual scowl returned and he waved his arm wildly at them.  “Now get off my property before I set my dogs on you!”

It was all the warning they needed.  Frodo and Merry sprinted past the pony fence and down the hill, not stopping till they had passed the apple grove.

Farmer Maggot stood in his barn’s doorway, watching the two young hobbits run off.  Once they were out of sight a shadow of a grin crept onto his lips.  He looked down at the basket in his hands and reached inside, taking out the largest mushroom he could see.  Popping it into his mouth, he went back inside the barn.

/

Safely away from the hill leading to Maggot’s farm, Frodo and Merry walked along the river that they had escaped on before.

“Do you want to look for your raft, Frodo?” Merry asked, munching on one of the apples the two had snatched from the apple grove.

Frodo’s gaze followed the narrow river, following it to where it would eventually branch into the Brandywine.  He grimaced, doubt in his eyes.  “I suppose we can try.  But I’m afraid there may not be much left to find.”

“Oh come on, Frodo,” Merry said in exasperation.  “Don’t be such a downer.  I’m gonna go look for it!”  Without waiting for Frodo to respond the little hobbit burst into a sprint, dashing along the river bank.  Frodo smiled and tossed away his apple core, running after his cousin.

/

Frodo was not surprised that his raft was not in the same spot it had been during the accident.  There was the rock, and the same muddy slope that Strider had pulled Frodo up, but the raft was nowhere in sight.

Strider.  Frodo was extremely disappointed that he had not been able to say goodbye to the man.  Esmeralda said he had mentioned having business of some kind in Hobbiton.  This sparked Frodo’s interest greatly. He wondered if Strider was going there to meet with Gandalf the Grey at Bag End.  The thought of a wizard and a Ranger at his uncle’s house excited him.  He desperately wished he was there now, instead of searching for what he was sure to be a tattered pile of wood and rope.

The two hobbits searched along the Brandywine for half an hour.  Finally, Frodo’s patience had worn out.  “Merry, there’s nothing to find.  Let’s go.”

Merry ignored his cousin, continuing to pick his way through the tall grass blades and weeds.

“Merry!  Come on.”

“Frodo, look!” Merry bounced up and down excitedly, pointing to a tall bramble of bushes in front of him.

Frodo sighed and pushed his way over to where Merry had indicated.  To his immense surprise, there was his raft.

It had been pulled a few feet up the muddy bank, slightly hidden by the surrounding brush.  Upon further investigation, Frodo saw – to his delight – that it hadn’t been too heavily damaged.  The only major casualty it seemed to have suffered was a slight cracking of the rudder.  But Frodo wasn’t worried – that was easily fixable.

“What’s that?” Merry gestured to the rudder’s handle.  There was what looked to be a rolled up piece of paper wrapped around the end of it.  A frayed piece of string held it in place.

Frodo’s brow creased as he removed the paper from the handle.  Tugging off the string, he unrolled the paper to find that a short letter had been written on it.

“Read it out loud,” demanded Merry.  Frodo did as instructed.

 

_Frodo and Merry,_

_I apologize for not being able to stay long enough to say goodbye.  Unfortunately, I had business elsewhere that needed attending to.  However, before I left I had managed to find your raft, which had been entangled in some tree roots further downstream along the river bank.  I am sorry to say that the rudder is cracked.  I do hope it is fixable._

_I pray that you recover quickly, Frodo.  Merry, keep him out of trouble, and look after yourself as well._

_Perhaps someday fate will be kind enough to bring us together again.  There is a gift for you two hidden beneath the rudder of your raft.  It is the symbol of a Ranger of the North.  May it protect you and bring you aid when you need it.  I apologize, for I have only one to give._

_You are both brave, incredible hobbits and I am honored to have met you._

_Until we meet again,_

_Strider_

 

As soon as Frodo had finished the letter Merry dove to the ground in search of Strider’s gift.  Frodo stared at the words on the worn paper for a long while.  A feeling of sadness overcame him, as though a great opportunity had passed him by and he had been too timid to snatch it up.  But what opportunity could that have possibly been?  Running off with Strider?  Going to Hobbiton?  Frodo smiled to himself in amusement.  The idea of him running off with a human would drive everyone in Brandy Hall absolutely mad.  They wouldn’t stop talking about it for years.

“ _Stars above!_ ” exclaimed Merry.

Frodo turned, folding up the letter and slipping it into his breeches’ pocket.  In Merry’s hand was Strider’s gift, entangled within the folds of the small cloth it had been wrapped in.  Merry plucked it from his palm and held it up to the sunlight.

It was a brooch of some kind.   _Perhaps a cloak clasp_ , Frodo thought.  The clasp was silver –  _solid silver?_  Frodo wondered – and shaped into a six-pointed star.  It shimmered brightly in the sunlight as Merry tilted it back and forth, examining it with interest.

After a while, Merry held it out to Frodo, who took it carefully.  The metal was cool against his skin.  It felt heavy, but not particularly in the physical sense.  More as if it held great importance, and had in some way been a  _part_  of the previous bearer.  Frodo grimaced, not sure if he liked the feeling of the clasp in his hand.  He passed it back to Merry.

“You keep it.”

Merry looked up at Frodo in surprise.  “Really?”

Frodo nodded.  “Go on.  Besides, it’ll look better with that pretty face of yours,” he teased, trying to make his voice sound light in an attempt to hide the sudden weariness he felt.

Merry made a face at Frodo, but looked pleased at being allowed to keep the gift.  He slipped the brooch into his pocket and turned back to the raft, which Frodo had already begun to inspect further.

Since the raft’s rudder was cracked, the two hobbits decided that they would have to drag it back to Brandy Hall.  They put it in the Bandywine River and partially untied one of the many ropes that held the wooden boards and logs together.  Frodo took the end of the rope and gave himself the job of pulling the raft downstream while walking beside it on the bank.  Merry was given a long branch to use to keep the raft from drifting into the riverbank as Frodo pulled it.  And thus they set off.


	7. Chapter 7

It took them over an hour to reach the outskirts of Brandy Hall, during which ensued multiple mishaps with the raft, such as it getting stuck in various weeds or shallow spots in the water, or floating too far out into the river.  The two would then get into an argument about whose fault it was, and they’d have to retrieve the raft and start the process over again.  Once they finally arrived at the edge of Brandy Hall estate, they dragged the raft across the fields to where an unused shed was.  Frodo would return later to work on the rudder.

Frodo’s head had begun to ache again, and the painful throbbing only intensified as they had dragged the raft across dry land.  He rubbed his temples irritably as they walked towards Brandy Hall, trying to lessen the pain.

Though Frodo no longer wore a bandage over his wound, the stitches were still intact. The local physician determined that they were not to be taken out for another five days, at the very least.  Frodo didn’t mind for the most part, though every so often they would tend to itch terribly.  He had to force himself to keep his hands to his sides, knowing that touching the healing injury would only worsen the pain or possibly ruin the stitches.

“I’m starving, Frodo,” Merry said as they approached the gate leading up to the Hall.  “Who knows how many meals we’ve missed today!  Come on, let’s try to get some leftovers from the cooks – if they’re still in the kitchen.”

Frodo’s stomach churned unpleasantly at the idea of food. Realizing that the nausea was most likely a result of his headache, Frodo decided that avoiding the kitchen was probably a good idea. Besides, the prospect of having to be amongst hordes of chattering Brandybucks suddenly seemed very disagreeable to him.

“I’d rather not, Merry,” he admitted weakly. “I’m not very hungry.”

“Oh.” Merry blinked at Frodo in surprise. “Are you sure?”

Frodo nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be along soon.”

Merry pressed his lips together uncertainly.

“Go on,” insisted Frodo. “I simply need a moment to catch my breath.”

Frodo’s reassurance did little to ease Merry’s concern, but he finally turned and scampered inside, his stomach growling in anticipation of promised supper.

Frodo grimaced as another shock of pain lanced across his skull. Frowning, he ignored the warm glow emanating from the open windows of Brandy Hall and instead headed down a stone pathway leading around to the back end of the hill.

The hill Brandy Hall was built within was impressive, to say the least.  It was dotted with a few scattered trees, their branches curling around the mound like a lover’s embrace, and their leaves falling to the hill’s dew-drizzled grass blades like gentle kisses.  Stone steps built into the hill wrapped around from the back of the Hall and up the grassy slope, coming to a stop at the base of a large tree rooted at the center of the hilltop.

Frodo took his time climbing the hill, gazing out over the distant fields and reveling in the surprising stillness the back of Brandy hill offered.  Hardly anyone came here for social activities, giving it a quietness Frodo often yearned for, and rarely received.

The late afternoon sun was starting to dip low in the sky.  It was still quite warm out, but a slight breeze accompanied the heat, making the temperature fairly pleasant on the hill.  As the coolness brushed Frodo’s brow, he felt his headache lessen, though the dizziness accompanying it did not abate.

Upon reaching the tree on the hilltop, Frodo settled onto the tall grass beneath its shade, leaning against the rough bark of its trunk with a heavy sigh.   He drew his knees up to his chest and laid his chin on top of them. Wrapping his arms around his legs, he gazed out onto the expansive fields stretching towards the horizon, lost in a haze of thought.

He wished his Uncle Bilbo was with him.  Whether it meant Bilbo coming to Brandy Hall or – better yet – him traveling to Bag End, he didn’t care.  He just wanted to be with his uncle.  A Baggins.  Someone who was like him.

Frodo remembered how he’d grown up hearing gossiping stories about the “strange” Bilbo Baggins.  The hobbit who lived alone in Hobbiton and had mysteriously disappeared for an entire year, only to come back rich beyond belief.  Everyone seemed to put Bilbo Baggins in a different category from normal hobbit folk.  He was a hobbit people did not talk about in a regular manner; the moment Bilbo’s name would be mentioned in a conversation, everyone present seemed to either become more interested or more wary in what was said.  Bilbo Baggins was labeled as an “oddity” among hobbits, and not many of them seemed to want to spend much time with him.

And yet, Frodo thought that Bilbo was the most wonderful person in the world.  For one thing, he told incredible stories (which Frodo believed to be absolutely and completely true, despite what his other cousins said).  And he was absolutely brilliant; he knew how to speak and write in Elvish, he composed his own poetry, and could read and write maps.  He charted stars and sketched down things he observed in either the skies or the lands.  Bilbo seemed to know everything there simply was to know.  Frodo didn’t understand how people could not like Bilbo Baggins.

Perhaps Bilbo’s reputation for oddity was why Frodo had such a strong connection with him. He felt as though Bilbo was the only person who could truly understand and appreciate him.

Frodo sighed, picking at the glass blades beside him.   _I miss you Bilbo._

/

To Frodo’s great surprise and delight, his wish came true that very next morning.  He had just finished second breakfast and had managed to escape the dining hall before any of the other cousins had been excused.  Dodging the frantic children running about and the food flying across the table, Frodo slipped outside Brandy Hall unnoticed.

Frodo pushed past the gate and began strolling across the wheat field, heading in the direction of the Brandywine River.  But he stopped, catching sight of what looked to be a small wagon being pulled by a pony.  As the wagon drew closer, he could see that there was only one person sitting in the wagon. His eyes grew wide as he recognized who the driver was.

“ _Bilbo!_   Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo cried out.  Shock and nearly gut-wrenching happiness filled him at the sight.  He burst into to a dead run towards the wagon, which slowed upon seeing the approaching hobbit.

“Frodo, my lad!” Bilbo greeted happily as he pulled the pony to a stop.  He climbed down from the wagon, his feet barely having touched the ground when his nephew crashed into him, embracing him fiercely.

“Oh, Bilbo, I’m  _so_  glad to see you!” Frodo exclaimed.  Tears threatened to fall from his eyes, so great was his relief and utter joy at seeing his uncle.  He tightened his embrace, hardly able to believe that his wish from yesterday had been granted.

“Let an old hobbit breathe, for stars’ sake!” laughed Bilbo.  Frodo jumped and apologized, pulling away from Bilbo.  Bilbo reached out, giving the thin hobbit an affectionate ruffle of his hair.  “My,” said Bilbo with mocking seriousness.  “You seem to have grown a least an entire foot since I last saw you!”  He winked, a teasing twinkle in his eye.  “You’ll be reaching four feet before I know it!”

“I certainly hope so,” Frodo said with a grin.  “Then I’ll be able to finally reach that blasted sweets jar Aunt Esmeralda keeps on the very topmost shelf in the kitchen.”

Bilbo gave a hearty laugh.  “A devilish rascal, as always.  It’s so good to see you, my lad!  Here, climb on the wagon with me and we’ll drive up to Brandy Hall together.”

Once Frodo and Bilbo had seated themselves, Frodo looked over at his uncle with curiosity in his eyes.  “Bilbo,” he said as the wagon lurched forward.  “As happy as I am that you’re here, I have to ask: why the surprise visit?  Usually you write before coming.”

“Why because of you.  You and that head of yours.”  Frodo looked at his uncle in confusion.  Bilbo smiled, quirking an eyebrow at his nephew.  “I trust you recall the name Strider?”

“Strider!” Frodo exclaimed in delighted surprise.  “How did – so you  _are_  the reason he was going to Hobbiton!”

“Oh, you knew about that, did you?” Bilbo looked pleased.  “Yes, Strider was traveling to Bag End.”

“Was he going there to meet Gandalf the Grey?  The wizard?” Frodo asked in excitement.

Bilbo smiled at Frodo.  “Yes, he was meeting Gandalf there.”

“What was it about?” Frodo pressed.  “Was it about some mission he had?  Was it another quest, like the one you went on?”

Bilbo chuckled.  “I honestly don’t know.  I gave them their privacy for their discussions concerning their own business.  I was not involved in their plans; I was merely the hobbit who had a home close enough to both of them to make an adequate meeting spot.  They had offered to let me listen in, but I was not interested.  I have had enough adventures to last me a lifetime.”

“Oh,” Frodo said, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Bilbo gently snapped the reins in his hands, straightening them out. “Gandalf had come to Bag End a few days before Strider,” he said. “When Strider finally arrived, he explained his tardiness as a result of helping two young hobbits who had been out on the Brandywine.  As soon as Strider mentioned the hobbit’s names, I knew I had to come see you at once.  I started out as soon as I was able to.”

“Injury or not, I’m glad you came,” Frodo admitted.

“I too.”  Bilbo looked at Frodo, concern in his eyes.  “How do you feel?  Strider said that you had hit your head extremely hard. He had to stitch the wound up.”

Frodo grimaced at the memory.  “I feel alright now.  I still get dizzy and a headache from time to time, but…it’s healing, I suppose.  I still have to wait a couple more days until the physician will take out my stitches.  Aunt Esmeralda had to cut my hair for Strider to put them in, so now I have a bald spot!” Frodo tilted his head, revealing the mentioned area.

Bilbo eyed the wound critically, paying more attention to the stitching job than the shaved hair.  “Your hair grows fast enough,” he said, absently waving his hand.  “It should be back to normal soon.”

The pony pulled the wagon up the pathway slowly but steadily.  The sound of the wheels creaking over the dirt drifted up through the slightly humid summer air, mixing in with the rustle of the waving grass.  Frodo leaned over the edge of the wagon seat, letting his hand brush the tops of the tall blades.  He smiled as a ladybug hurriedly flew out of the way, then circled back around his hand in curiosity.

“How’s your cousin, Merry?” Bilbo asked, keeping his eyes on the approaching gate to Brandy Hall’s courtyard.

Frodo drew back from the edge of the wagon and straightened in his seat.  “Happy as always.  Though he seems to get chattier the older he gets.”

“I didn’t think it was possible for the lad to talk anymore than he already does,” Bilbo said with a chuckle.  “He’ll have to watch himself, or he may talk his mouth right off!”

Frodo laughed.  “He’s becoming a rather clever trickster, nearly always finding a way around anything asked of him.”

“Sounds like another certain hobbit I know of,” Bilbo said with a wink at Frodo.  “You haven’t been luring poor Merry into your questionable habits, have you, my lad?”

“Of course not,” Frodo said with mock offense.  “If anything, I’m just making sure that he’s ready for the day I’m no longer at Brandy Hall.  There must be at least  _one_ sensible hobbit here, otherwise this place will fall to ruin because of the overwhelming dullness it’ll acquire.”

Bilbo chuckled.  “That  _would_  be a tragedy, wouldn’t it?  I’m relieved you’ve taken such lengths in looking out for the good of Brandy Hall.  What would they do without you?”

“Certainly have a larger supply of mushrooms, for one thing.”

Bilbo pulled the wagon to a stop in front of the courtyard gate with a hearty laugh.  “My dear Frodo, how I have missed you!”

Frodo smiled.

“Bilbo!  Bilbo, you’re here!”

Frodo and Bilbo turned their heads to the direction of the voice.  Merry had burst from Brandy Hall’s front door and was sprinting across the courtyard, waving his arms wildly.  Bilbo and Frodo climbed down from the wagon, Bilbo moving around the pony so he could get a clear view of the tiny hobbit.  Merry pushed through the gate and jumped into the air, where Bilbo caught him and pulled him into an embrace.

“Merry, my lad!  How are you?”

“Hungry!” Merry declared, rubbing his bulging stomach.

“Didn’t you just come from breakfast?” Frodo asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still hungry!” 

Bilbo laughed.  “It’s good to see that you haven’t changed much, Meriadoc!”  He set the small hobbit on the ground, grinning down at him.  “Well,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.  “I must say, you seem to have grown some since last I saw you.  However,” he said with a rueful shake of his head.  “You still have some sprouting to do before you catch up with your cousin.”  He leaned down, crouching so he was eye-level with Merry.  “And, if you allow me my humble opinion, I think Frodo’s height it starting to go to his head.”

Ignoring Frodo’s mock cry of offense, Bilbo smirked at Merry.  “He’s starting to get a bit conceited I think, full of ideas that he is invincible due to how tall he is.  Do me a favor, Merry, and be sure to remedy that.”

“Don’t worry, Bilbo!” Merry said proudly, putting his hands on his hips and straightening to his full height…which wasn’t much.  “I already promised him that I would out-grow him soon enough.”

“Good lad!” Bilbo said, ruffling Merry’s curls.

Merry turned, sticking his tongue out at Frodo, who crossed his arms and rolled his eyes with a sigh.  Bilbo beamed at the two youngsters, then turned his attention to the pony still attached to the wagon.  “Now help me put away Daisy and the wagon. Then we can see to your parents, Merry.”


	8. Chapter 8

Saradoc didn’t seem too pleased with Bilbo’s surprise visit; nevertheless, he showed him to one of the guest rooms without argument.  Frodo assumed this was due to the warning glares Esmeralda shot at her husband after Bilbo initially burst into Brandy Hall.  As they followed Saradoc to Bilbo’s room, many of the children playing in the halls stopped to run after Bilbo, calling after him cheerfully and waving.  Others simply stared or even ran away, pulling whoever they had been playing with after them.

Saradoc and Esmeralda left the guest room almost as soon as they had opened the door to it, leaving Frodo and Merry to sit on the guest bed and accompany Bilbo as he unpacked.  Once they were alone Merry hopped down to the floor and raced to Bilbo’s side, pulling out the silver cloak-clasp Strider had left.

“Look at this, Bilbo!” Merry said excitedly, brandishing the trinket proudly.

“My!” exclaimed Bilbo.  He bent forward, examining the clasp with interest.  “Wherever did you find such a treasure, young Merry?”

“A  _human_ gave it to us!  After he had rescued Frodo from the Brandywine River!”

“Ah,” Bilbo nodded.  “I thought I had recognized it.  That is the symbol of the Rangers of the North.  This clasp is how one identifies themselves as a Ranger.  I am surprised that Strider so willingly parted with it.”  He glanced between Frodo and Merry with a twinkle in his eye.  “Well, perhaps it is not so surprising after all.  Strider always preferred sentiment to material things.”

“ _You_ know Strider?” Merry said.  “How?”

Bilbo gave a sly smile.  “Ah, that is a rather interesting matter in itself.  Let us simply say that he and I have a mutual friend.”  Bilbo leaned forward, the curiosity evident in his gaze.  “May I have a closer look, Merry?”

“Sure.”  Merry passed the clasp to Bilbo, who took it in steady hands.  Bilbo turned it over slowly, studying the clasp in detail.  Merry shrugged and turned away, busying himself by going through Bilbo’s trunks in hopes of finding something interesting.  Finally, Bilbo turned to hand the clasp back to Merry.  But the smaller hobbit was upside down and shoulder-deep in one of the traveling trunks, so Bilbo simply set the clasp on the bedside table with a chuckle.

As Bilbo unpacked the trunks Merry wasn’t burrowing through, Frodo began asking him about the happenings in Hobbiton, to which Bilbo gladly and thoroughly answered.  Soon Merry grew bored with the talk, and – having found nothing particularly interesting in Bilbo’s belongings – left to go join some of the younger hobbits he could hear playing outside.

As the door clicked shut behind the small hobbit, Bilbo turned and looked at his nephew, who was examining a new map Bilbo had brought with him.

“Mirkwood,” Frodo murmured thoughtfully, tracing his fingers along the looping script written at the top of the map.  He looked at Bilbo.  “Is it a wonderful place?”

“Very,” Bilbo answered.  “Although some of its residents are a tad on the…hostile side.”

“The spiders?” Frodo said, Bilbo’s story of the creatures echoing in his head.

“Hmm,” Bilbo said, with a slight twitch of his lips.

“You were so brave, Bilbo,” Frodo said, turning the map slightly and squinting at it once more.  “I don’t know if I could be that courageous against such creatures.”  He frowned, his expression serious, and overlaid with disappointment.  “I do all of this grand talk about such things, but when it comes down to it, I don’t know if I would be able to do the things you did in times of true fear.”

Bilbo studied his nephew solemnly.  He rested his hand on Frodo’s shoulder.  “Frodo, I have no doubt that if you ever face terrors similar to the ones I had, you would be just as brave – if not braver – as I was.”

Frodo smiled sadly, not looking convinced.  “I certainly hope so.”

Bilbo’s eyes lingered on the map for a long moment before he gave his head a sharp and energetic shake.  “Come,” he said briskly, pulling the map out of Frodo’s hands.  “Why don’t we get away from here for a while?  Have you ventured into the Buckland Market recently?  I’ve been itching to visit it again.  They have quite the interesting array of bath salts there, you know.”  Bilbo threw an exaggerated wink at Frodo.

Frodo chuckled.  He knew that Bilbo was not interested in bath salts (unless they were of good quality, naturally).  The simple desire to get away from Brandy Hall was the more prevalent reason for wanting to leave.  “Alright,” said Frodo enthusiastically.  “Let’s go.  I’ve been stuck here so much lately, I feel as though I might burst.”

“Well, let us depart then, before anything messy comes of either of us,” Bilbo said urgently, practically pushing Frodo out of the guest room in his haste to leave.  As they passed by the guest bed, a flash of silver caught Frodo’s eye.

“Strider’s clasp!” Frodo scooped up the trinket, pausing for a moment.  “Merry must have forgotten it.”  Shrugging, Frodo slipped the clasp into his pocket.  “I’ll give it to him later.  Right now, I can’t get out of this hill fast enough!”

/

The two were soon back on the wagon – with Daisy once again at the front of it – and quickly pulling away from Brandy Hall.  Frodo felt as though a heavy weight was lifted from him as they passed around a large hill that obstructed Brandy Hall from sight.  It was such a relief to be leaving the Hall, even if it would be only for a few hours.  And to be with his uncle on this outing!  It was just as Frodo had hoped for the other day.  He leaned back against the wagon bench, a smile spreading across his face.

The road they traveled on looped lazily around the grassy hills doting Buckland’s countryside.  At one point it swerved close to the Brandywine River, and the sound of the rushing waters filled the hobbits’ ears.  Frodo eyed the river nervously, and he fought the urge to bring his hand up to his suddenly itchy healing wound.

Bilbo, of course, was quick to catch the sudden twitch of Frodo’s hand and the young hobbit’s suddenly distracted attention.  “Frodo,” Bilbo said cautiously.  “Do you want to tell me what happened on the river?  I haven’t heard the events told from your perspective.”

Frodo was silent.  He stared at the river’s surface as it swirled and rushed past him, twisting around tangled river weeds and washing over large rocks beside the riverbank.  The sun’s rays spread out across the water’s surface, sparkling happily.  Frodo sighed and began to absently pick at a loose splinter of wood on the edge of the wagon’s bench.

“Merry and I were fishing,” he began.  His voice was quiet as he told Bilbo the story.  But as Frodo came to the part when he sunk beneath the Brandywine’s waves, he had to pause for a moment.  The splinter he had been picking at tore away from the bench with a soft  _snap_.  Frodo rolled the piece of wood between his fingers for a moment.  He tossed it out of the wagon, watching as it tumbled through the air and dropped out of sight behind the wheels.  “It was the strangest thing,” he said.  “I couldn’t move.  My entire body had just…I don’t know, stopped working, and I was trapped inside of it.  It was terrifying. My limbs wouldn’t react, and my head felt as though it was on fire.  And then…” Frodo took a deep breath.  “I heard my parents.”

Bilbo looked at Frodo sharply.

“They were calling for me,” Frodo murmured.  “At first I didn’t recognize their voices.  It had been  _so_  long since I’d last heard them. I…I heard them dying.  Their boat had capsized – or whatever had happened that day – and I could hear their screams as they drowned.”  Frodo paused a moment, trying desperately to hold back the tears that had sprung to his eyes.  “That’s when I knew I was going to die.  Just like them.  In the same river.  And there was  _nothing_  I could do about it.”  Frodo pressed a trembling hand to his eyes for a moment, trying to keep his voice steady.  Bilbo pulled the wagon to the side of the road and brought it to a stop.  He reached out a hand and placed it on Frodo’s shoulder, who flinched at the unexpected touch.

“Frodo,” Bilbo said gravely. “Frodo, look at me.” Frodo did not move, his hand still covering his eyes. “ _Frodo_.”

Finally, Frodo withdrew his hand. He turned slowly, watery eyes meeting Bilbo’s.

“My dear, dear Frodo,” Bilbo said. “Though I did not know them extremely well, let me reassure you that your parents were exceptional hobbits.  And they loved you  _very_  much.  When happened to them was a tragedy, but don’t let that hinder your happiness.  Let your parents be an inspiration to you, to becoming your own exceptional kind of hobbit.  And I must say, you’ve done a marvelous job so far.”  He smiled warmly. A quiet moment passed, then Bilbo pulled his nephew into an embrace, resting his cheek on top of the dark curls with a sigh.

Frodo clutched the sleeves of his uncle’s shirt tightly, tears leaking from his eyes onto the light fabric.  “Thank you, Bilbo,” he whispered.

Bilbo sighed and pulled away from the embrace.  “Now.”  His voice had returned to its usual chipper, inquisitive tone.  “My  _true_  concern is with your raft,” he teased.  “How did it fare in this whole adventure?”

Frodo gave a shaky smile, wiping his eyes. “It’s still in one piece,” he answered. “But, the rudder’s cracked.  I was hoping to find a repair paste of some kind that I could use to fix it.”

Bilbo nodded approvingly, nudging Daisy and the wagon back onto the road.  “Seems like a sound idea to me.  I am sure we shall find something suitable at the Market.”

/

The Buckland Market was a large, bustling place.  About an hour’s ride from Brandy Hall, it stood between two long, but short, hills.  Within the hills were the usual hobbit houses, most of them belonging to the owners of the various shops or booths.  The booths and shopping tents lined the edges of the Market, all composed of colorful clothes and decorated with their products being sold.  Craftsmen selling pottery or beads often sat on blankets, surrounded by their merchandise, but they were often dwarfed by the other sellers.

Always busy, the Market was an exciting place to explore during the summer afternoons.  Hobbits took their time visiting each booth, blanket, and shop to admire the dainty trinkets, critically inspect the produce and poultry, and inquire about any strange new items brought to them from the outskirts of the Shire.

Bilbo and Frodo casually walked through the marketplace, stopping to look at anything that caught their attention.  Frodo eyes suddenly grew wide with excitement and he tugged on Bilbo’s sleeve, pointing.  “Look, Bilbo – a human merchant!  Let’s go meet him.” It was not often that human merchants would visit the Buckland Market. Most of them did not find it financially worth visiting the hobbit marketplace, but those who did were known to bring the most wonderful and strange items.

Bilbo followed the younger hobbit to the merchant’s booth – which was really just the back of his traveling wagon.  Odd spices and plants hung from the curved roof, and dozens of various trinkets and bottles covered the back plank of the wagon.  The merchant, a tall man with graying dark hair and a beard to match, gave a slight bow as Bilbo and Frodo walked up.

“Welcome, welcome!  I am Leofryn, a humble merchant with goods that will dazzle the mind of any hobbit who dares to look.  How may I assist you today?”

“We are simply browsing, thank you,” Bilbo replied.

Leofryn gave a wide smile.  “Very good.  Please, do not hesitate to ask me any questions about any item displayed here.”

Bilbo nodded absentmindedly as he inspected an old map that was pinned to the edge of the display board.  Frodo stood on the tips of his toes, his nose barely just passing over the board’s edge as he looked at the various goods laid out.  

An exclamation of wonder escaped Frodo, his eyes lighting up as he stretched out his hand and wrapped his fingers around a small wooden box. On top of the box was a miniature city surrounded by mountains, carved from the same lovely oak as the box the city rested on. Lifting the object from the board, Frodo turned it over in his hands and noticed a small crank on the backside. Delicately, he turned the crank a few times. As he let go a soft lullaby emitted from the box, tinkling pleasantly.

“My stars!” Bilbo exclaimed, edging closer to his nephew to have a better look at the music box. “That’s Rivendell, that is!”

“Lord Elrond’s home?” Frodo said, gazing at the city with a new interest.

Bilbo nodded enthusiastically.  He looked up at Leofryn.  “How ever did you come by that?”

Leofryn glanced at the music box for a moment before giving a shrug.  “I got it off one of the humans that come through the northern villages bordering the edge of the Shire.  He didn’t seem to want it, and I got it for a good price.  I’ll sell it cheap to you, if you want.”

“What do you say, Frodo?” Bilbo asked.  “Would you like it?”

Frodo glanced at the merchant.  “No,” he muttered, feeling suddenly intimated by the merchant’s pressing stare.  “That’s alright.”

“You sure?”

Frodo set the box back on the display board.  “Yes.  I’d rather find repair paste anyway.”

Bilbo shrugged.  “Suit yourself.”

Feeling a twinge of hunger, Frodo reached into his pocket for a candy he had swiped from the Brandy Hall kitchen earlier that day.  As he pulled it out, the edge of his hand caught onto Strider’s cloak clasp, and it tumbled from his pocket onto the ground at his feet.

Immediately the silver caught Leofryn’s eye.  Leaning forward, the human’s eyes widened with disbelief.  “Now wherever did a small thing like you obtain such a treasure?” the merchant said curiously.  Frodo bent over and swiped up the trinket, eyeing Leofryn with distrust.  Either the merchant did not notice Frodo’s glare, or wasn’t bothered by it in the least; he continued to press his question.  “How did you come by a Ranger’s clasp, little one?  Those are not objects easy to obtain.  I’ve never heard of a Ranger being so careless as to lose one.”  The man’s eyes narrowed as he studied Frodo’s face.  Frodo swallowed and stuffed the clasp back into his pocket.

“It does not matter where the lad got it,” Bilbo said sternly.  Frowning, he placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder.  “It is rightfully his.”

The merchant laughed.  “Rightfully?  I would not go so far as to say that.  No hobbit has a  _right_ to keep what belongs to a human.  Though I would have to have a few drinks in me before giving such a small hobbit the credit of being able to steal from a Ranger.”

“Let’s go, Frodo,” Bilbo said darkly.  His hand still on Frodo’s shoulder, he began to steer the younger hobbit away from the wagon.

“Leave then, it’s no matter!” Leofryn called after them.  “I don’t do business with thieves anyway.”

“Are you alright, Frodo?” Bilbo asked, ignoring the man as they weaved their way back into the crowd.

“Yes,” Frodo said.  He did not dare glance behind them to see if the man had bothered to follow them.  “Why was he so aggressive, Bilbo?  We did not take anything.”

Bilbo shook his head with a sigh.  “Some humans are greedier than others.  Just as some hobbits can be.  The Rangers are nearly the stuff of legends, my lad.  They are infamous, as is anything that symbolizes them and what they are.  Strider gave you something very special.”

“But why?  Strider must have known the attention it would cause.”

“I doubt many hobbits would recognize the symbol.  It’s purely poor luck that a human – and a rather rotten one at that – saw it.”  Bilbo spared Frodo a glance as he led him through from the marketplace.  “It is said that a Ranger’s clasp protects the one who wears it.  That is why Strider gave it to you and Merry.”

Frodo touched the outline of the clasp through his breeches. He hoped Bilbo was right.

/

It did not take much searching for the two hobbits to locate a shop that sold the repair paste Frodo would need to fix his raft’s rudder.  After purchasing it, along with some much-needed sandwiches, Bilbo declared that it was time to return to Brandy Hall.  Frodo was not exactly thrilled at the prospect, but the thought of stumbling across the human merchant ceased any arguments he had started to concoct.

The afternoon sun was just beginning its descent towards the horizon as Bilbo and Frodo started the journey back to Brandy Hall.  Frodo lounged in his seat lazily, content to bathe in the warm sunlight with his full belly.  It was rather peaceful on the road, and neither hobbit seemed keen to break the comfortable silence.  But finally, after a quarter of an hour, Frodo suddenly sat up and looked at his uncle with urgency.

“Uh, Uncle Bilbo?”

Bilbo glanced over at Frodo.  “Yes?”

Frodo’s face scrunched up in a mixture of embarrassment and sudden need.  “Can we…pull over?  I need to…you know.”

“Certainly, my lad!  No need to look so embarrassed.  We did have quite a lot of pumpkin juice along with those sandwiches.”

Frodo held in a sigh of relief as Bilbo guided Daisy to the side of the road and pulled the wagon to a stop.  Frodo hopped down into the tall blades of grass and caught sight of a small grove of trees not ten meters from where they were.  “Be right back, Bilbo!” Frodo called as he rushed towards the grove.  

Frodo eyed the trees with interest as he found a private place within them to relieve himself.  These types of trees weren’t common near Brandy Hall, and he desperately wanted to try a hand at climbing them.  But he knew he shouldn’t keep Bilbo waiting long.  He finished quickly and began to make his way back to the grove’s edge.

 _Snap._ Frodo paused and turned around, searching for the source of the sudden noise.  It sounded like the sound of a twig being stepped on, but he wasn’t sure.  A bird twittered cheerfully in a tree above him, distracting him for a moment.

 _Crunch._ Frodo’s head snapped towards the noise, but he could nothing.  This time it sounded like dead leaves being crushed beneath a foot.  And it sounded much closer.

“Hello?” Frodo called, trying to sound braver than he felt.  “Is someone there?”

Silence.  An uneasy feeling rippled through Frodo.  He turned away, once more heading towards where Bilbo was waiting.

Then everything happened at once.  A large crash exploded behind him, like how Frodo imagined the sound of a giant bursting through trees would be.  He spun around but was stopped mid-way when he slammed into something massive and hard.  Two things encircled him, which took Frodo a moment to register as arms.  Before he could scream, a foul-smelling cloth was stuffed into his mouth.  Then he was lifted into the air, and everything became a blur of darkness and terror.


	9. Chapter 9

“Uncle Bilbo!  _Uncle Bilbo!_ ” Frodo tried to scream. But the gag shoved into his mouth prevented the words from properly forming, and his shouts sounded little more than muffled grunts. Twisting viciously, Frodo struggled to break the hold of the arms clutching him. But his efforts had no effect on the man carrying him deeper into the shadows of the grove. As they moved around a particularly large tree, a horse was revealed to be tired to one of its branches. A surge of panicked energy shot through Frodo; he knew that if he didn’t get away now, he might not get the chance again.

Heaving his body against his captor’s arms, Frodo swung his legs out and kicked them backwards with as much strength as possible. His left foot struck his kidnapper in the shin, and the man stumbled forward as a cry of surprised pain left his lips.

“Bastard halfling…” the man hissed. With a snarl he threw Frodo to the ground. Frodo’s breath left him in a rush as his body slammed into the ground. His hands free, he yanked the gag from his mouth, choking and coughing for air.

Immediately the man knelt over Frodo, making it impossible for Frodo to jump to his feet. The man pulled out a piece of rope and lashed Frodo’s arms together tightly. Having caught his breath, Frodo sucked in a gulp of air and prepared to scream. The man, who had been expecting this, raised one of his large hands and struck Frodo across the face. Frodo’s head snapped to the side, his skin burning from the slap.

“Try to escape or scream again, and I’ll break your wrist,” the man snarled. Then he snatched up the gag that had been lying on the ground and stuffed it back into Frodo’s mouth.

His chest heaving, Frodo turned his head to finally get a good look at his captor’s face. He was human – as Frodo had suspected. Dark, greasy hair hung about the man’s head, the ends just brushing his broad shoulders. He had piercing gray eyes, a crooked nose, and the shadow of a beard framing thin lips that were pulled back into a sneer, revealing rows of crooked teeth.

The man’s eyes narrowed at the hobbit, and then unexpectedly he shoved his hand into the pocket of Frodo’s breeches. For a moment Frodo froze in shock, completely bewildered as to what the man could possibly be doing. Then the man’s hand curled around Strider’s silver clasp and pulled it free.

“Ah, there it is,” the man said, the smug satisfaction hard to miss in his voice.

Eyes narrowed in fury, Frodo’s bound hands immediately snatched out, trying to reclaim the clasp. But the man easily jerked the pendant out of Frodo’s reach, giving him a warning look. “I  _will_  strike you again,” he said. Frodo only glared in response.

Pocketing Strider’s clasp, the man stood and wrenched Frodo to his feet, effortlessly lifting the small hobbit onto the horse’s back. The moment the man’s hands left Frodo they moved to the rope tied around Frodo’s wrists. Taking the dangling end of the rope, the man secured it to the front of the saddle.

“We have a long day’s ride ahead of us,” the man said. “If you behave, I may take out that gag after a while. Or it will stay there, and you will not get any water. Understand?” Having untied his horse’s reins from the tree branch, the man looked back to Frodo, who was glaring at his captor in motionless fury. The man growled and wrapped a fist in Frodo’s shirt, nearly pulling him off the saddle as he brought the hobbit’s face close to his own. “ _Understand?_ ”

Trembling with anger, Frodo nodded. The man’s lips pressed together in distaste. He straightened the young hobbit and climbed onto the horse’s back, positioning himself so he was sitting behind Frodo. Taking the reins so that his arms trapped Frodo on either side, the man nudged his horse forward, leading them deeper into the wilderness.

/

It had been nearly ten minutes since Frodo had disappeared into the grove, and Bilbo’s concern was mounting. With a frown, Bilbo finally climbed down from the wagon and led Daisy to the edge of the trees, where he tied her to a low hanging branch. Giving the pony a pat, Bilbo walked into the thick brush.

“Frodo! Frodo, lad! Come now, we haven’t got  _all_ day!”

There was no answer.

Bilbo’s frown deepened. Trying to shake off his unease, the hobbit continued his search, pushing aside tree branches and maneuvering around various bushes as he went. “Frodo! Blast it all, where is that lad?”

A quarter of an hour passed, and Bilbo had searched nearly the entirety of the grove. Panic had begun to seize him, threatening to rip away all sense as he stumbled about.

“Frodo!  _Frodo!_ ”

Rushing back to where Daisy was patiently waiting, Bilbo untied her and scrambled up the wagon. “Come on Daisy, come on girl!” He whipped the reins against the pony’s back, prompting her to move back towards the road. “Go on, go!” The wagon picked up speed, and Daisy and Bilbo raced towards Brandy Hall.

_Frodo, please be alright. Oh, Elbereth, where could he be?_

/

Her face pale, Esmeralda struggled to keep her composure as Bilbo told her and Saradoc what had happened on the way back from the Market.

“You have no idea what might have happened? Where he could possibly be?” Esmeralda asked as he finished the story.

Bilbo sighed, running a hand through his graying curls. “I do not, Esmeralda. I’m…I’m so sorry.” His voice broke on the last word, and he fell silent, taking a moment to compose himself. “I fear that something awful may have happened to him.”

Saradoc scoffed. “In Buckland? Unlikely.” He crossed his arms. “Are you certain that Frodo did not simply run off? He’s done so before, without any concern for the sanity of his guardians, and –”

“Hold your tongue, Saradoc!” Bilbo snapped. Saradoc stared at Bilbo. But when Saradoc opened his mouth to retort, Bilbo rounded on the hobbit and continued with greater ferocity. “You have berated and belittled the lad long enough! It’s bad enough that Frodo has become a child of isolation here at Brandy Hall, and now when there is a great chance that he could be in danger, you turn your back on him! You are hardly fit to claim yourself uncle to a lad who deserves much better than he has been dealt!”

Saradoc and Esmeralda stared at Bilbo, their jaws agape. Tense silence strangled the air for a moment, before Bilbo gave a weary sigh.

“Forgive me, Saradoc. That was uncalled for.” Bilbo rubbed a hand across his face. “I…I must go to my room to pack.”

“Bilbo –” Esmeralda began.

But Bilbo held up a hand. “Thank you for your hospitality, both of you. However, I know of someone who will be of great help in finding Frodo, and I need to get to them as soon as possible. Frodo cannot wait.” Then the old hobbit began to walk away.

“Bilbo.”

Bilbo paused, twisting back around to face Saradoc, who had spoken. Saradoc pressed his lips together tightly, looking uncomfortable. Then he gave a deep sigh. “We here at Brandy Hall will be searching for Frodo as well. If we find anything, we’ll send word to Bag End.”

His grim expression unchanging, Bilbo nodded. Then he turned his back on Saradoc and Esmeralda, hurrying to his room to pack.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****IMPORTANT. I HAVE RECENTLY RE-EDITED CHAPTERS 1-9 OF THIS STORY.****
> 
> When I began writing this story, I really had only a vague idea of where I wanted it to go. I now have a clearer idea of the plot’s direction, and my inspiration for it has slowly come back. I do intend on finishing it. I am so sorry for the long wait for this update.
> 
> However, as it is an earlier work of mine, the writing is no longer up to my current expectations. I’ve since gone back and done some editing in the previous chapters, so that the level of writing matches that of new chapters I will upload. I have NOT changed major plot points, but I have tweaked some dialogue and interactions, as well as replaced dialogue that sounded far too modern. (Though there is one unimportant scene I did cut out, as I felt it did nothing for the story and only hindered the pacing)
> 
> Once again, ALL OF CHAPTERS 1-9 HAVE UNDERGONE EDITING. I only do this because it is an older story, and if I continue it, I want the quality to be consistent throughout.

Frodo’s headache had come back with a vengeance. His skull felt as though it were splitting in two, his still-healing wound throbbing in agony with each jolt of the horse he sat on. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to hold back the nausea bubbling within him.

Bilbo must have noticed his absence by now. And when he had realized something had happened to Frodo, he would get help. He would fetch…who? Saradoc and his other uncles? What could they possibly do? They knew nothing of tracking, of hunting down dangerous men.

Who could possibly find him?

“Got ‘im, did you?”

Frodo opened his eyes at the sound of the familiar voice. They had moved on from the grove a while ago and had entered the large wood bordering the edge of Buckland Market. Frodo could see no end to the trees, nor hear the din of Market, so he knew that they were much too far for shouting to be of any use. Not that he currently could anyway, with the disgusting gag tied around his mouth.

Standing next to a large tree, and looking more timid than Frodo remembered, was the merchant who had accused Frodo of stealing Strider’s clasp.

“ _You!_ ” Frodo exclaimed. But the sound, hindered by the dirty cloth, came out more as a muffled gurgle.

Leofryn ignored the accusing shout and straightened, trying to appear casual. Yet he was careful to keep a few meters between himself and the horse, the trepidation in his eyes as he watched Frodo’s captor betraying his unease.

“Bjorn,” Leofryn greeted warily. He glanced at Frodo. “Did he have the clasp?”

Bjorn grunted. “Not a particularly impressive thing. But it is of the northern Rangers – that alone gives it its worth.”

“And the halfling?”

The man shifted his hold on Frodo. “He has his part to play.”

Leofryn nodded. “So we’re done?” He hesitated, then held out his hand. “My payment, then?”

Bjorn eyed Leofryn in disgust. He reached down, as though about to grab a small bag strapped to the side of his horse. But then, his movements quick, he drew a thin knife from behind the bag and raised it. Leofryn barely had time to open his mouth in protest before the knife was sailing through the air. It embedded itself deep into the merchant’s chest with a sickening wet thud.

Leofryn gave a soft gasp, then collapsed.

Frodo make a horrified sound behind his gag, struggling to hold back the bile in his throat. Bjorn dismounted the horse and, completely unconcerned, went to Leofryn’s still-twitching body and wrenched the knife free. He wiped the blade clean, looking pointedly at Frodo.

“I will have no qualms harming you, if you make this journey difficult,” he said, his voice low with warning. “I hope now you understand this.”

Eyes wide, Frodo shrunk back as Bjorn stalked towards him. He ripped the gag from Frodo’s mouth and brought the knife up to the hobbit’s pale throat.

“Now tell me true,” snarled Bjorn. “Where did you get that clasp?”

Pain thudded against the walls of Frodo’s skull as he stared at the man. He licked his lips, willing his tongue to work.

Bjorn pressed the blade harder against Frodo’s skin. A thin line of red trickled down the hobbit’s neck, and Frodo bit back a whimper.

“Well?”

Frodo swallowed. “A Ranger gave it to me,” he said shakily. “As a token of friendship.”

Bjorn scoffed. “Did he now? Well then,” he grabbed a handful of Frodo’s hair, yanking the hobbit’s head towards him. “You must have a name to give.”

The air dripped with tense silence. Frodo pressed his lips together, unwilling to answer.

Frustrated anger flashed across Bjorn’s face. Wrenching the knife away, Bjorn released his hold on the dark curls. With a growl he struck the young hobbit across his face.

Frodo’s vision blackened momentarily, and he gasped at the agony that shot through his wound. A groan slipped past his lips as he slumped over the saddle, struggling to keep himself on the horse.

“Give me a name, halfling,” ordered Bjorn. “And no lies. Or you’ll wish I had disposed of you as easily as I had that fool merchant.”

Frodo shook his head faintly, flinching at the pain the movement caused.

Bjorn snarled and brought up the knife, slicing the rope tying Frodo’s bound hands to the saddle. He dragged Frodo from the horse and shoved him to the ground, knocking the breath from the hobbit. Bjorn placed his boot on Frodo’s heaving chest, applying his weight mercilessly as he leaned over the small form. Frodo choked at the constriction of his chest, struggling vainly against the man’s weight.

“I could waste my time beating the truth from you,” Bjorn said. “Or you could save yourself unnecessary pain.” He paused, watching Frodo’s face carefully. “Was it Strider?”

That caught Frodo’s attention. Surprise flickered in the hobbit’s eyes at the name, though he quickly tried to hide the emotion.

Bjorn grinned triumphantly at the hobbit’s poor attempt of indifference. “Excellent.” He removed his foot and roughly pulled Frodo up, lifting him back onto the horse. “He will be pleased.”

Who would be pleased? Frodo frowned, but before he could say anything, the revolting gag was tied around his mouth once again, without consideration for the bruise darkening on his cheekbone. Bjorn secured Frodo back to the saddle and mounted the horse, resuming his position behind the hobbit. He gave the horse a swift kick in the side, urging it forward.

Entrapped by the man’s arms and struggling to stay conscious in spite of the pain of his wound, Frodo could only yank fitfully at the rope restraining him as he was taken further from Buckland.

/

They rode in silence for long hours. Twice Frodo had passed out from the pain in his head, slumping against Bjorn’s stinking form. Bjorn had successfully revived the hobbit the first time by slapping the pale face repeatedly. But Frodo did not respond for hours after he had fainted the second time and, once he was sure that the hobbit was still alive, Bjorn settled for simply preventing him from tumbling off the horse as they rode.

They did not stop until twilight. Warm rays of light stubbornly clung to the branches of the trees above them, giving Bjorn some light to see by as he pulled the horse to a stop. He undid the rope tying Frodo to the saddle and dismounted, dragging the hobbit’s limp form from the seat. Propping Frodo against a tree, Bjorn withdrew a long coil of rope from one of his packs and secured the small body to the tree trunk. Frodo twitched, his eyelids fluttering as his body struggled to regain consciousness.

Bjorn retrieved a water skin from his horse’s saddle and drank greedily, watching at the hobbit slowly came to his senses. Frodo blinked and glanced around, frowning in confusion.

“Back amongst the living, then.”

Frodo looked up sharply.

Bjorn tapped his finger against the water skin, studying Frodo curiously. “That’s quite the wound on your head,” he commented. “Is there an interesting story behind it? Or is it simply the result of halfling stupidity?”

Still gagged, Frodo simply glared.

Bjorn smirked. He approached Frodo, reveling in the fearful way the hobbit drew back from him. Kneeling, Bjorn yanked the gag from Frodo’s mouth.

Frodo gasped, gratefully sucking fresh air past cracked lips and into his dry throat. He grimaced at the feeling, wishing desperately for the water he had been denied all day.

As though Frodo had spoken the wish aloud, Bjorn lifted the water skin. “Do you want some?”

Frodo eyed the offered item distrustfully.

“Answer me, halfling.”

Frodo raised his furious gaze to Bjorn’s. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice weak and cracked with thirst.

For a moment, it looked as though Bjorn was considering denying Frodo the drink. But he seemed to reconsider and lifted the water skin to Frodo’s lips.

The water, though stale, was an utter relief to Frodo. As the liquid was poured down his throat, his headache dimmed somewhat, as did the grogginess that had been hindering him since waking. But the water skin was pulled away all too soon, and Frodo could not help a soft cry of dismay.

Bjorn chuckled mockingly at the sound. Setting the water skin aside, he retied the gag around Frodo’s head. “Just in case,” he said.

He moved away from Frodo and pulled down another pack from the horse. Drawing out a few pieces of dried meat, Bjorn settled down into the grass and began gnawing at the food, gazing out into the wilderness surrounding them with a critical eye.

Frodo watched the man eat longingly. His stomach rumbled loudly, to his embarrassment, catching Bjorn’s attention.

“Fancy a bit of food, little halfling?” He shook his head. “I’ve given you water, and that’s enough. That kick you gave me earlier cost you supper. Maybe in the morning I’ll give you something. Or maybe not.” He shrugged. “We only have a few days’ travel anyway.”

Despair mingled with the hunger in Frodo’s stomach. He was expected to spend the night tied to a tree, without anything to eat? The memory of Brandy Hall’s lively mealtimes surfaced in his mind, and Frodo suddenly found himself desperately wishing he were back there. He would endure a hundred lectures from Saradoc, if it only meant he could be home again.

Fighting back tears at the thought of his family, Frodo shifted his gaze to the treetops above. Sleep suddenly seemed so very far away.

/

Even in his urgency, it took Bilbo an entire day to return to Hobbiton. Already frantic over Frodo’s disappearance, by the time he had burst through Bag End’s door to a surprised wizard and Ranger, his wits had nearly been lost to him. They left not long after Bilbo’s frantic explanation, with Bilbo riding a fresh pony and Gandalf and Strider on larger horses brought from Hobbiton’s market. Even so, hours stretched tortuously, each moment ticking away Frodo’s peril in Bilbo’s mind as they raced back to Buckland.

By the time they had reached the grove where Frodo had gone missing, it had been over two days since Bilbo had last seen his nephew.

“We have lost so much time already, Gandalf. How can we possibly hope to find him?” His voice weary with despair, Bilbo nudged his pony forward and cast his eyes about the grove hopelessly. The late morning sunlight spilled onto the ground around them, the heat of their rays prompting beads of perspiration to blossom on Bilbo’s forehead.

The addressed wizard straightened on the white horse he rode, eyeing the surrounding trees sharply. His grey cloak flowed down the sides of his horse, the color of the faded cloth not all that different from the tangled beard covering Gandalf’s chin and draping down his chest. Worn was his appearance, though it did little to diminish the wisdom and warm power radiating from him.

“We will find him, Bilbo,” Gandalf said. “Do not despair just yet.”

“Here.”

Gandalf and Bilbo looked over to the source of the soft voice. Strider knelt amongst the shrubbery of the grove, his hand tracing the outline of an indentation in the ground. Bilbo strained forward in his saddle, struggling to discern what it was.

“Hoofprints,” said Strider, indicating. “They can’t be more than a few days old. Same as the hobbit prints we found back there.” He frowned. “There are other prints as well. A hobbit’s without doubt, and a smaller set. Human. Adult male, if I not mistaken.” He glanced at Bilbo. “The prints are not clean; there was a struggle.”

Bilbo paled.

Strider stood, his expression hardening. “Frodo did not leave this grove of his own will, that much is certain.” He reached for his horse’s reins and tugged the animal close. “We have lost precious time.” He started off into the deeper part of the grove, heading in the direction of the vast woods bordering Buckland Market. “We must move quickly.”

Bilbo exchanged a worried look with Gandalf. The wizard set his mouth grimly and followed Strider, Bilbo close behind.


	11. Chapter 11

“There is a body here.” Strider’s voice was grim.

Frigid terror seized Bilbo and he tightened his grip on his pony’s reins, unwilling to move her forward to see the figure Strider knelt beside.

If it was Frodo…

“It is a man,” observed Strider. “He was stabbed in the chest, by a knife of some kind.” He shifted his weight on his heels, adjusting his crouched position. “He has not been dead for long. A couple days, at the most.”

Bilbo’s breath left him in a rush, his shoulders sagging in relief. Reaching out, Gandalf gave the hobbit a reassuring pat on the arm. They nudged their pony and horse closer, and upon seeing the corpse Strider was examining, Bilbo’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Bilbo?” Gandalf asked sharply. “Do you recognize him?”

“He…” Bilbo glanced between his companions. “Frodo and I met him at the Buckland Market the day Frodo was taken. He was a merchant; the only human I recall seeing there, in fact. He was selling nothing of importance. Simple trinkets, really.”

Strider stood, staring at Bilbo with an urgent intensity. “Bilbo, tell us everything you remember of this man. The smallest of details may be the most vital.”

Bilbo frowned, trying to recall the memories to the surface of his frazzled and worried mind. “He was cordial enough at first. He seemed no more attentive to us than any other seller. It was only until…” Bilbo paled, and his hardened gaze snapped to Strider. “Frodo had reached into his pocket for something. Somehow, the Ranger clasp you had given him fell out of it. It was only then that the merchant showed genuine – and hostile – interest in Frodo, and the clasp. He accused Frodo of stealing it. _Stealing_ it.” Rage curled around Bilbo’s words as understanding filtered into his tone. “That clasp is the cause of all of this, isn’t it? Frodo had nothing else with him of value.”

Bilbo dismounted his pony and stalked towards Strider, the ferocity on his face suddenly making him not seem so small in height. Strider pressed his lips together grimly, not moving as the furious hobbit approached him.

“Do you know this man?” Bilbo demanded, jabbing a finger at the corpse. “Who he is? _Is that damn clasp the reason my boy was taken?_ ” Fury and fear twisted Bilbo’s expression into something both horrible and heart wrenching to behold.

Strider was silent for a moment. When he spoke, quiet shame shadowed his words. “I do not know this man, Bilbo. But the trail we’ve been following leads to him. And if this merchant was so affected upon seeing the clasp, then it is a fair assumption that Frodo’s possession of it played a part in his abduction.” Pain flickered in his eyes. “I am sorry.”

“Sorry,” snarled Bilbo. “Frodo has been at the mercy of ruthless thugs for almost three days now, possibly seriously injured, and you are _sorry_.” He clenched his jaw. “You must know something more. If the men simply wanted the Ranger clasp, why take Frodo as well? He only hinders their journey. This is more than the simple theft of a trinket, Aragorn. For some reason, they needed my nephew. _Why?_ ”

Strider hesitated. “The Rangers of the North have many enemies. Many would welcome a chance at retribution. Perhaps –”

“Taking a hobbit child would suffice their revenge?” Bilbo snapped. “In what way?”

“There are too many questions unanswered for us to discern that, Bilbo,” interjected Gandalf. “Loss of temper will not bring us any closer to Frodo. Clearly, this man was not the one who abducted Frodo. Or if he was, our missing hobbit was passed onto someone else. This man may have been nothing more than an informant. One who was not worth paying.”

Strider kept his gaze on Bilbo for a moment longer, his eyes echoing with sympathy and regret. He turned to Gandalf. “That is my thinking,” he said. He gestured to the flattened grass beyond the dead man. “There are hoofprints leading away towards the northeast. The human town Merton lies not far outside of the Shire border in that direction. There is no other town for hundreds of miles beyond it, so it is a good possibility that Frodo and his captor will stop there. Many travelers, especially those who wish to avoid inquiries about their business, stop in Merton to rest or replenish their supplies. It is not a large place, nor one known for having a quality reputation.”

“Then we must go there,” Bilbo said fervently. He hurried back to his pony and mounted it.

“Every hour is of the utmost importance,” said Gandalf. “We must ride hard now.”

Strider nodded and mounted his own horse. He cast a final dark glance at the corpse, then urged his horse further into the wood.

/

Frodo was not sure which part of his body ached more. His head, which throbbed dully due to thirst and his healing wound, or his legs, which were stretched too far for a hobbit’s comfort as he was forced to sit upon a human-sized horse for over two days now.

During his first night as a captive, while Bjorn slept, Frodo had worked tirelessly at loosening the ropes binding him to the tree. But his arms were twisted at too odd of an angle for him to do much good, and exhaustion soon seeped into his body until he could only slump wearily in his bounds and drift into an uneasy sleep. Bjorn had woken him not long after. After Frodo was given a meager portion of bread and dried meat they set off once again, the sun crawling its way over the edge of the horizon and casting the wood in a pale glow.

Beyond the wood, only open country and rolling hills lay between them and whatever destination Bjorn had planned. To diffuse any suspicion from passing travelers they might meet, Bjorn removed the gag from Frodo’s mouth. Relief flooded through Frodo at finally being able to breathe more freely, though the soreness of his dry throat became more prominent with every intake of air. Frodo remained tied to the saddle, though Bjorn had him wear a long cloak – in spite of the summer heat – which was used to hide his bound hands.

“If we meet any travelers and you try to alert them, I will run you through with my knife, and make quick work of them as well,” warned Bjorn. He pressed the tip of his knife’s blade to Frodo’s back briefly before slipping it into the sheath hanging from his belt.

Frodo did not doubt the man. He kept silent, instead spending much of the journey desperately thinking of ways he could escape once they were done traveling by horse.

They finally reached a town on the third day. It was a human town, which – in spite of the danger he was in – peaked Frodo’s interest a bit. It was not very large, nor nearly as welcoming as even the quietest of villages in the Shire. Everything seemed drained of color; dull shades of black, brown, and grey were what coated the buildings they passed, the faded paints smudged with mud from the roads. People did not call out affectionate greetings to each other, nor indulge in cheerful chatter. They mostly kept to themselves as they walked, talking only to those they had to.

They passed in front of a tavern, and angry shouts could be heard coming from within. A dog barked fiercely from the post it was tied to, snapping its jaws at the heels of the horse Bjorn and Frodo rode on. Across the street a vender pushed a wheel barrel of near-rotting vegetables, swatting away scrawny children who wandered too near. Flies buzzed in Frodo’s ear, and he scrunched up his nose at the smell of filth mingled with manure.

Is this what all human towns were like? Despair seeped into Frodo. He had dreamed of magnificent cities, bubbling with life and rich in colors. This…this was a mere phantom of the tales Bilbo had told him. Frodo bit his lip, shrinking in on himself as a few people lingering on the street gazed at him – some with curiosity, others with suspicion. Judging by their reactions, hobbits did not frequent this town.

Bjorn led his horse to the front of a narrow building. A sign hung above the doorway, its faded letters reading Beggar’s Inn in a dull red. Bjorn dismounted and tied the horse’s reins to a post in front, then reached for Frodo. Using his knife, he sliced through the ropes binding Frodo’s hands. He grabbed the hobbit beneath his arms and pulled him from the horse, roughly setting him on the ground. Frowning, Bjorn ripped his cloak Frodo’s shoulders and shoved it carelessly into one of the packs hanging from the horse.

A burning ache seized Frodo’s legs as they were finally relieved of the stretched position they had been in on the enormous horse’s back. His legs trembled, unable to hold his weight, and he felt himself collapsing into the mud.

Bjorn’s hand shot out, seizing Frodo’s arm and steadying him. “What’s the matter with you?” he hissed.

“My legs…” murmured Frodo hoarsely. He blinked, trying to clear his hazy vision. “I’m so thirsty…” Bjorn had given him water, when he had remembered it. But the little Frodo had received was barely enough to keep the dizziness at bay, which only worsened in the summer heat.

Bjorn growled in annoyance. He jerked Frodo upright, keeping a secure hold on the thin arm. “Don’t even consider causing trouble while we’re in there,” he warned. “Hopefully he’ll be here, and then soon I’ll finally be rid of you.”

“Who will be here?” Frodo asked.

Bjorn ignored him. He wrenched Frodo forward, dragging him into the inn.

The ground floor of the inn was nothing more than a tavern. Dozens of men sat at tables crowding the small space, talking amongst themselves and occasionally calling out to the serving women, asking for drinks or, if they were bolder, favors that made Frodo redden upon hearing. The smell of greasy food and unwashed men mixed together sickeningly, and the room was hazy from the pipe smoke blanketing the customers.

“This way,” Bjorn muttered, hauling Frodo towards a table set in a quieter corner of the room.

Frodo stumbled over the uneven floorboards, trying to find his footing as he was roughly guided through the mass of humans. A roar of laughter erupted from a table nearby, causing Frodo to jump. He grimaced, unable to cease his nervous shaking.

“Watch it, you drunken halfwit!”

The shout came from behind Frodo. Twisting his head around, his eyes widened as he watched a sweat-drenched, portly man stagger forward. The man tripped and suddenly he was sprawling, hands flailing for something to grab onto. Drunkenly, he wrapped his hands around Frodo’s arm.

Alarm shot through Frodo and he cried out as the intoxicated man ripped him away from Bjorn. The man and Frodo crashed to the floor, knocking over a stool and sending a wave of laughter rippling through the tavern’s crowd. Bjorn whirled around, and the man who had grabbed Frodo blinked in confusion at the small body wriggling beneath the weight of his arm.

“Get off!” gasped Frodo, straining to free himself.

“Wha’ is…a kid…doin’ in ‘ere…?” the man blubbered out stupidly.

“That ain’t no kid,” said a man sitting nearby. “That’s a halfing, ya idiot.” He squinted, peering across his table in interest. “Ain’t seem one of ‘em in a while.”

Grabbing a table leg, Frodo hauled himself free of the drunken man’s tangled limbs. He sat there beneath the table for a moment, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. Then he froze in realization.

He was free.

Frodo’s head jerked up. Looking irritated, but not alarmed, Bjorn stepped over the drunk man and bent down, reaching for Frodo.

Twisting around, Frodo threw himself further beneath the table’s surface. He heard Bjorn’s cry of surprise, followed by an angry shout. Frodo scrambled to the other side of the rounded table and crawled out from beneath it, shooting to his feet. Bjorn was already making his way around the table, fury in his eyes as he stalked towards Frodo.

Immediately, Frodo burst into a run. Dodging serving girls and diving between the legs of drunken men, Frodo weaved through the crowded tavern towards the inn’s entrance. He had no idea where he was going to go once he got outside, but as long as he was free of Bjorn, he didn’t care.

Frodo slammed his shoulder against the tavern door. Fortunately, it was not a heavy door, and swung open without much difficulty. Stumbling into the muddy road, Frodo gasped with relief as the humid air clung to him. _He was free!_

Forcing his wobbly legs to move, Frodo began running in the direction he and Bjorn had come from. The tavern door slammed open behind him, but Frodo did not look back as he urged his body to hasten. If he could find an alley to hide in, or a shop, _anything_ …

The thudding footsteps were growing closer. Panic surged in Frodo and he swerved to the right, heading for what looked to be a small leather shop. The next moment, a large hand clamped down on Frodo’s arm, yanking him backwards and off his feet.

“ _No!_ ” The cry, hoarse and wretched with hopelessness, tore from Frodo’s throat.

Bjorn whirled Frodo around so that they were facing each other. “Worthless halfling!” he snarled. “I should have broken both your legs days ago!”

Frodo raised his foot and slammed it into Bjorn’s knee. Bjorn staggered back, pain flickering through his rage as he once again felt the hard, bruising impact of hobbit feet. Curses sputtered from his mouth and the hand on Frodo’s arm constricted. Bjorn violently wrenched Frodo towards him. He raised one booted foot, and then slammed it down on Frodo’s leg.

There was a sickening crack, followed by a blaze of burning pain. Frodo screamed, crumpling to the ground as his leg collapsed beneath him.

Without hesitation Bjorn swept Frodo into his arms, ignoring the hobbit’s choking cry of agony as he did so, and carried him back into the inn. Of the few who had been within earshot of the struggle, none followed after the man and the halfling.

Inside the inn, Bjorn carried Frodo to the back of the room, his expression livid. Frodo, his face pale from the pain of his broken leg, blinked hazily at a serving girl they passed.

“Please…” he whimpered weakly. “Please help…”

The serving girl stared, horror in her eyes as she took in the sight of the battered hobbit. Sensing the attention on Frodo, Bjorn threw her a vicious warning glare. She shrunk back, then busied herself with clearing a table.

“I had warned you,” breathed Bjorn. “If you did not cooperate, harm would come to you.”

Frodo closed his eyes, fighting back tears.

“You won’t find running off so easy now,” Bjorn sneered. He lifted his head, narrowing his eyes at a figure sitting in the shadowed corner of the room. “Ah, there he is.”

Frodo looked up, groaning as he was struck by a wave of nausea.

The man they approached easily fit in with the others occupying the tavern. Rugged and wearing clothes in need of a wash, he looked nothing more than a common thief. The only distinctive feature about him was a long scar running over his nose and down his left cheek. He was lounging in a chair alone at the furthest table in the room, a mug clutched in his hand. He glanced about the room lazily, though when his gaze fell upon Bjorn and Frodo, he frowned.

“Why in the hell do you ‘ave a halfling, Bjorn?” the man demanded. “Where’s the Ranger?”

“He’s coming,” said Bjorn. He shifted Frodo in his arms. “Now where is Mailnin? I need to speak with him.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “You want to talk to ‘im? With no Ranger and a useless halfling?” He shook his head. “Not the wisest idea.”

“I didn’t come for your wisdom,” snapped Bjorn. “I came for information.” Cradling Frodo with one arm, he dug a silver coin out of his pocket and tossed it onto the table. “Where is he?”

The man shrugged and picked up the coin. “Suit yourself. Next street over, last house on th’right. Older place – half the roof shingles are missing. He don’t leave it much.”

Bjorn gave a curt nod, then turned away and strode back towards the inn’s entrance. No one stopped him, and Frodo did not bother to call for help again. Anyone who was paying attention did not seem to care about his predicament. Disgust and horror twisted in Frodo’s gut. He wondered how often these people had turned their backs, if only to not be bothered by something they decided wasn’t their business.

Outside, Bjorn unwound his horse’s reins from the post it had been tied to. “I’m tempted to make you walk,” he grumbled to Frodo. “But I want this over quickly.” So he continued to carry Frodo, and led the horse down an alleyway on the side of the inn. Frodo tensed as Bjorn moved, struggling to bite back cries of pain every time his broken leg was jostled.

They emerged onto a street just as muddy and dreary as the previous one, and went down it until Bjorn stopped at the last house on the right. He hastily tied his horse to a post outside, then carried Frodo to the house’s front door.

“Please,” pleaded Frodo. “Please let me go. You have Strider’s clasp, is that not enough?”

Bjorn did not spare Frodo a glance. He reached up and pounded on the house’s door. A few moments passed, and then the door creaked open. No one stood in the darkened hallway before them. Unconcerned, Bjorn stepped over the threshold. The door slammed shut behind them of its own accord, the noise of its banging echoing after them.

The house may have been well kept before, but now it was left to deteriorate in disarray. Dust coated the floor, and the smell of mold seeped from the cracks of the walls. The sparse furniture there was hadn’t been cleaned in some time, and many of the wooden pieces were cracked, rendering the chairs or benches unusable. As they went deeper into the house, Frodo became aware of a new smell. It took him a moment to place it, but when he did he recoiled in horror.

Decay. Something was rotting in the house.

Bjorn took Frodo into what may have been a sitting room at one time and paused, uncertainty in his eyes as he glanced about. There was no one here.

“You do not bring me the Ranger…”

A shiver ran down Frodo’s spine. The voice had drifted to them like a ghost’s whisper, eerily distant and yet softly intimate, as though the speaker had breathed the words directly into their ears. It sounded raspy, as though it was unaccustomed to being used.

Bjorn stiffened, his wariness suddenly very noticeable to Frodo.

“Instead, you bring me a whelp from the Shire…”

Bjorn spun around. Standing in the corner of the room, where no one had been moments before, was a dark figure.

It resembled a human man, though Frodo somehow sensed it was anything but. Dark robes draped the figure’s skeletal limbs, making his already too-pale skin seem transparent in the dim light. Sharp eyebrows and sunken cheeks, lined with deep wrinkles, made up a face that looked as though it could not decide what age it wanted to portray. He appeared to be a man in his sixties, but it was difficult to be sure. Black eyes, matching the color of his ragged, unkept hair, watched Bjorn and Frodo with a cool calmness. The irritation in his expression was not hard to miss.

“Mailnin.” Bjorn nodded in greeting. “I bring you a halfling, yes, but I assure you, Strider is coming.”

Mailnin smiled, revealing rows of decaying teeth. “Is he now?”

“Strider had given his Ranger clasp to this halfling.” As though disgusted by such a notion, Bjorn threw Frodo to the floor.

Immediately, pain shot up Frodo’s broken leg. A choked sob escaped him and he curled over, panting as fresh agony burned through him.

Mailnin kept his gaze on Bjorn.

“Rangers do not give away their clasps lightly, if at all,” Bjorn continued. “This halfling must be dear to Strider to bestow such a foolish gift. In a stroke of luck, I was visiting a halfling marketplace when a merchant I pay for information told me he had met one in possession of a Ranger’s clasp.”

“How fortunate,” mocked Mailnin. He paused, as though needing to draw strength to speak his withered words. “And you are certain it was Strider’s clasp?”

“Yes.” Bjorn gestured to Frodo. “The halfling is important to Strider; he will come for him.”

Mailnin’s mouth did not seem to move, but a dark chuckle emanated from him nonetheless.

“I speak the truth,” insisted Bjorn. “There is no tracker to rival Strider. I did not conceal my path so well this time; he will have no trouble following me.”

Mailnin studied Bjorn. A chilling silence ebbed into the room.

“Are we done then?” Bjorn finally asked. The trepidation in his voice had risen significantly.

“Very well then,” smirked Mailnin. He indicated with a weary wave of his hand. “Your payment is there.”

Bjorn looked to where an old fireplace was built into the far wall. On top of the mantle was a cloth bag tied with a string. Cautiously, he crossed the room. He hesitated, then reached out and grasped the bag.

For a moment, nothing happened. Bjorn lifted the bag and drew it close, shifting its weight in his hand and listening to the sound of coins clinking together with satisfaction.

Then the bag began to decay.

Mold grew on the cloth at a rapid rate, its tan color turning a sickly green. Then the threads started to unravel, revealing not coins inside, but the dead carcasses of rotting beetles.

Bjorn gave a revolted shout and dropped the bag. But the beetles did not tumble to the floor. Instead, they seemed to melt into Bjorn’s hand. The blackness of their presence was visible beneath Bjorn’s skin as it moved up his arm and neck. Bjorn was screaming, clawing desperately at the infection, but it continued unhindered until it seeped up the sides of his face and to his forehead. Then Bjorn abruptly stilled. His eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the floor with a loud thud.

Frodo stared, eyes wide and body shaking uncontrollably. He might have been screaming along with Bjorn but now, in the silence following, he couldn’t remember. Even the pain of his broken leg seemed dulled in the wake of what he had just witnessed. He raised his gaze to Mailnin, who was watching him with mild curiosity.

“We shall see if the Ranger comes for you,” Mailnin finally said. “Until then, Bjorn will serve my current needs adequately. It has been too long since I last had fresh body parts to work with.”

Icy terror gripped Frodo. He knew what this figure was. He had read about them, in a history book he had found while visiting Bag End. Bilbo had forbidden him from reading the book, as its contents were much too dark for a hobbit his age. But Frodo smuggled it into his room in the middle of the night and read it when Bilbo thought he was asleep. The nightmares he had received from the stories were horrible enough. But to see one in person, and be at their mercy…

“Y-you…” stuttered Frodo. “You’re a witch. A witch who uses corpses in their magic. A bone witch.”

The corner of Mailnin’s lip twitched. “I see not all halflings are complete halfwits. Let us hope Bjorn will suffice for what I need. I am not certain halfling body parts will be enough for the spell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapters have no consistency in length haha. Because of school, I’m not sure when I’ll have time to update again. Hopefully soon.


End file.
